The question was loaded, and his father knew it. Duke’s mother had left because of Willis’s out-of-control gambling. It wasn’t until a bookie showed up at Duke’s high school, cornered the teen in the locker room, and punched him in the kidney three or four times, leaving Willis’s son to piss blood, that his father finally got help, stopped drinking, and gave up gambling.

He’d changed over the years, becoming a leader in the community, though Willis never did get the hang of being a normal, caring father. He put his reputation and random girlfriends first. But his father was a solid businessman, managing Duke’s finances so he wouldn’t end up like other professional athletes who pissed away large sums of money. Well, solid until recently, anyway. Duke was suddenly receiving late notices from bill collectors. Willis was off his game.

Duke prayed he wasn’t gambling again. “Don’t play the guilt card. I agreed to let you be my manager as long as you keep things transparent. You might have the best intentions, and God knows you’re good at making a dollar, but you’re also an addict.”

“Your faith in me is hardly overwhelming.” Willis took a swig of coffee, picking up another newspaper. “Try looking in a mirror. You went crazy, remember? You burned through a lot of money with your partying and your legal bullshit. I’m the one who made sure you stayed afloat.”

“Just fix the credit card and pay the clinic, okay?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Duke slammed out the back door, leaving his breakfast behind. His father had pulled so much crap over the years, and yet Duke had given him chance after chance. Willis resembled Duke in many ways, with his deep mahogany cast, green eyes, and lithe build. But the old man also had leathery skin, yellowed whites in his eyes, a hard potbelly, and the ability to forget Duke was family. If only Willis would show a little gratitude. Maybe even treat him like a son.

Angel counted to ten, staring at the ceiling tiles in the back hallway of the clinic, slowly inhaling antiseptic and urine smells and exhaling frustration. Mama always taught me to stop and think before reacting.

Her mama’s advice was keeping Dr. Collins alive—Angel sat at the nurse’s station, filling out charts and plotting the man’s death, but the “Do unto others” mantra Mama had drilled into her now guilted her into restraining her crazy. Trying to complete a form, she broke the lead of an automatic pencil for the third time and cursed.

This was supposed to be her last shift at the clinic before she graduated, and Dr. Collins was supposed to sit down with her for a final exit interview at the end of the night’s shift, so he could provide a recommendation for licensure. But, without talking to her, he’d just switched her schedule.