“So, you’re all drunk?” Zay shakes his head, clearly annoyed.

“I’m not … yet,” Hunter offers. “But only because I was DD.”

Zay crosses his arms. “Who did you get the alcohol from? Because I’m assuming that’s where you went.”

Hunter tenses, which makes me tense.

Zay glares at Hunter and says in a cold tone, “You got it from my brother, didn’t you?” He doesn’t wait for Hunter to respond. He just storms toward the house.

“Before you get too pissed off,” Hunter calls out after him, “you should know that some guy in the bar started a fight so he could grab Raven.”

Zay slams to a halt a few feet from Jax, his back stiff. Slowly, he turns around, his expression unreadable. “What?” He bites out the word.

“It’s fine,” I feel the need to say. “He just wanted to give me a card that’s to, like, this secret club or something that supposedly has answers to my past.”

When Zay’s gaze slides to me, I regret even open my mouth. But I wouldn’t be me if I backed down, so I open my mouth to tell him to chill out when thunder suddenly booms from the sky. It’s so loud that I jump.

“It’s okay,” Hunter tells me. “It’s just a little storm. One that totally came out of nowhere.”

I peer up at the now dark sky right as a bolt of lightning zaps across the sky. I jump again, but I can’t help it.

From the memories I can recall, every time a violent storm rolls in, something bad happens. I either break my arm falling off a swing set, get lost in the woods, or my parents die. And those are just the things I remember. Who the hell knows what else has happened in my hidden memories?

“We should get inside,” Hunter mumbles but starts backing up. “Let me grab the alcohol.” He jogs to the car, puts all the bottles in the bag, then slings the handle over his shoulder and returns to my side. Then he grabs my hand and starts forward, pulling me with him.

Zay and Jax follow, and the four of us head up the path to the house. We make it halfway before the rain starts showering down and have to take off at a run, barreling onto the front porch. Zay hurriedly unlocks the door, and then we rush inside the house.

“Just a little storm, my ass,” I comment at the sound of rain hammering down on the roof and the thunder booming from outside.

Hunter grins as he sets the bag on the foyer floor and shucks off his hoodie. “Honeyton has killer storms.”

His choice of words causes goosebumps to sprout across my flesh.

Killer.

You are a killer.

And the last time there was a violent storm, you may have killed your parents.

Sometimes, in the darkness of night, I can recall brief flashes of the storm from the day my parents were killed. The sound of the thunder felt like it was burrowing into my brain to the point that I had a headache.