The classroom was full when I arrived, and as always, my eyes found my daughter in the middle of the room. I’d pushed Kirby to get into the FBI program and even gave her a glowing endorsement. They needed more women in the FBI, and I was positive that my daughter needed direction in her life. This job filled both needs.

“Alright, class, today we are going to look at Dr. Harold Shipman.”

KIRBY

I sat off to the side of the large classroom, and still, my mother found me and smiled at me, making me want to sink down into my seat and hide. Didn’t she understand that everyone already thought I didn’t deserve to be here? Everyone else had to apply and be vetted. I was granted a free access pass because of my mother’s credentials. I had no idea how they knew. It wasn’t like I ever said anything about who my mom was, but the boys to my left and the girl to my right glared in my direction as my mother nodded at me.

The class my mother taught was interesting, not that I’d ever admit that to her. It would be all the ammunition she needed to keep me in this place until I made Special, Special rank, or something. As the lights flicked on at the end of the seminar, I tried to escape with the crowd, but that was pointless. My mother spotted me and called out my name loud enough that even the dead would have heard her.

“Kirby, can you come here for a moment, please?”

I groaned internally but slowly moved toward her as she packed up the papers strewn across the teacher’s desk. As we waited for the rest of the students to clear, I looked around the room. The space really needed an upgrade. Even a paint job would be a good idea. The problem was if I had the choice, I’d paint the walls something bright and colorful or maybe something that would freak everyone out for fun. I could picture a slew of flowers or maybe crazy-looking clowns. That would fuck with everyone’s minds, and I smirked at the thought. Really anything would be better than 70s orange.

The door to the hall closed, and my mother snapped the clasp shut on her briefcase before looking at me.

“We need to talk.”

I internally groaned.

Those four little words were the most dreaded in any relationship dynamic. ‘We need to talk’ was the equivalent of ‘I’m punching you in the face with my words before I fuck you up the ass without lube and with something you won’t like.’