“Then take it,” I said from where I lay on the living room floor. “I don’t want it anyway.” Books and coasters were strewn across the carpet. The coffee table was splintered. Blood seeped through the side of my T-shirt. I was going to need stitches. Again.

I wondered what story my mother would tell the doctor this time.

My father laughed softly. “You know Sylvia will never give it to me.” He shook his head. “Clean this up.”

My father turned and walked out of the room.

Kaden rubbed at his temple. That part of the memory, at least, was crystal clear. It had been part of the many nightmares he’d been having for years.

I waited for the front door to slam shut before pulling myself up. My mother stepped into the room and leaned against the frame in a crisp white dress. She made no effort to help me up, though she did cast a worried glance at the carpet where blood dripped from the hem of my shirt.

“You could put a stop to this,” she said.

As if I was strong enough to stand up to a full-grown man.

“You could put a stop to it, too,” I said. “Report him. Divorce him.”

“That’s not an option,” Mom said. “If I leave him, we’ll lose half of what we have—more, thanks to the money he’s put in.”

Pressure built up behind my eyes, but I wouldn’t cry. Not again. “Then let him run the distillery. I don’t want it.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Sylvia said.

She was right. Bourbon was in my blood. I loved the smell of the sour mash, the feel of the kernels in my palm. I’d always looked forward to taking over one day. My family wasn’t all that different from the Haywoods. People gave up their darkest moments to our bourbon and found peace. It was its own sort of healing. It was something I wanted to be a part of. But not at any cost.

“What if it is?” I asked. “I’ll graduate, I’ll leave. You’ll have Nate.”

“I want you, Kaden. This is your birthright,” she said. “You’d really leave your family behind?”

He stuck around for another five years. His mom had a way of convincing people to do what she wanted, and his father never laid a hand on him again.

But it hadn’t been enough. His mother’s machinations and his father’s disapproval were a different kind of abuse. And after the memory harvest of ’97, he was done.

Yet here he was, on his way home.

Within a few minutes, he’d passed the sign that said, “Welcome to Yarrow, Bourbontown USA!” The day was all sunshine and humidity, but as soon as he crossed the city limits, a faint fog descended. The gloom clung to everything. The trees, the road, even the clouds.