I hope he forgave himself for acting out of anger.

I’ve been slapped enough to know that it’s not just painful but demeaning as if you’re nothing but a thing, and he made his son feel that way. There is never an excuse to touch someone unless it’s in self-defense, least of all your son.

I got none of those words out when he was lying there; all I could think about was what would happen to Ambrose.

I gently put my bag on the tall white leather barstool and walk around the breakfast bar to grab a bottle of water and maybe a granola bar, it still feels weird to grab food from their pantry, but I’d starve if I didn’t.

It feels even weirder when I see cash on the counter with a sticky note, my name on it, as if to say, use our money, buy whatever you want.

I don’t know what’s going to happen in twenty-nine days though, so I keep the money in a jar under my bed—hoard it, really. So far, I have three grand. I’m hoping it’s enough to at least get me started away from this place just in case they don’t take care of me.

I mean, they owe me nothing.

And now that I’m eighteen and have had a full stomach from food, the thought actually makes me want to puke—not having food.

I remember getting free breakfast and lunch at my other schools and bringing ziplock bags so I could store the leftovers for later. The amount of cold tater tots I ate at night was astronomical. I’m still tempted to do it during lunch out of sheer habit, especially when they let me grab more than one burger.

It’s embarrassing but necessary.

I sigh and reach into the fridge. There’s no bottled water which is weird because the fridge is stocked on a weekly basis. I grab a diet coke instead and go to the pantry.

It too has a limited amount of food.

Something’s wrong.

I look around the house and notice that it’s super pristine—clean, just like the first time I was there.

Again, something’s off as I make my way toward the main living room. Susan isn’t there like she normally is. The blankets are all folded.

I walk further down the hallway and check the garage; maybe she left?

One of the sports cars is gone.

And it’s not Ambrose’s.

Frowning, I walk back into the house and the kitchen.

Ambrose is there, he’s leaning over the white granite, and he has a letter in his hands.

Maybe it’s from a family member?

I stop walking when he looks up at me, tears in his eyes.

Did we get sued again?

Did someone else die?

Is this family cursed?

He takes a deep breath and surprises me when his next words are. “Well, I guess now I know what it’s like to be an orphan.”

“What?” I ask, panic seizing my chest as he goes over to one of the many liquor cabinets, grabs a bottle of expensive-looking booze, and just sits on the marble floor in the kitchen. “What do you mean?”