But Jax didn’t believe in Pamela’s Lord, just like he didn’t believe in bigfoot or aliens or the tooth fairy. His mom was buried under a pile of dirt and rock at Whiteside Cemetery, not sitting like a guardian angel on his shoulder. How do you make yourself believe in something when you don’t? How do you convince yourself of things you can’t see? Jax had no freaking clue.

He wanted his family back, damn it. Not just his mother but the way things used to be, when the house was filled with laughter and music and the smell of freshly baked cookies. He wanted the sister who didn’t preach at him all the time, and the dad who looked up from his computer for more than five seconds, a dad who bothered to be a father. He knew they were suffering, but damn it, so was he, and they were too self-absorbed to notice. He wanted to live in this big house full of people and not feel so alone.

Oh, and while he was at it, Jax might as well admit that he’d really like to cry. A good son would have shed some tears for his dead mother, wouldn’t he? He would have stood at her graveside and felt something other than stone-cold fury.

But so far, not one measly fucking tear.

5

Sam Kincaid is the first officer to arrive and the last person I want to see. I spot his familiar face through the front window, his eyes steady on the driveway as he zigzags his way down the snarled strip of concrete, and a flash of heat lingers on my skin like sunburn.

He scrapes to a halt at the flat stretch of driveway, and I open the door, stepping out into the cold. I’ve changed into jeans and my warmest sweater, but I left my shoes upstairs. The wind has picked up since I raced up the hill, dipping the temperature into what must be single digits, carrying with it a heavy whiff of snow. Already my feet are like ice, the tips of my toes tingling with frostbite.

Sam unfolds himself from the car, all long limbs and the surly expression I’ve gotten used to seeing take over his face whenever his gaze lands on mine. His siren is off, but the lights swirl with urgency, painting the house and the hill in blood red and bruise blue.

“Charlie,” he says, greeting me with a formal nod.

Like everybody else I grew up with, Sam knows that calling me Charlie is the best way to piss me off. I bite down on my lips and hold my tongue. If Sam’s looking to get a rise out of me, then I refuse to give it to him.