I remember the stories my mother told me about when she was a kid. It was like she was a success from birth despite what her family felt about her. She started trying to make cookies for money to pay for an item she wanted. Then, she moved onto simple services like cleaning and pet sitting. It was a story I couldn’t live up to because everything was handed to me.

A go getter who took no shit from anyone? I was not her.

Cancer dragged her down in the end. Far too early. I was eternally grateful for everything she gave me, but I wasn’t sure that she made the right choice. Did she really think I was capable of handling what the world would throw at me? If she did, I needed answers to my burning questions.

She wasn’t here to give them to me, so I hoped to God that I could find the answers within the company she left me.

Kelly was silent as the TV played in the background. I searched her expression to see if something else might be hiding deep down. There had to have been signs I missed if she was able to hide so much within herself. Just like Brent, she was too calm and collected for my growing anxiety.

Speaking of the devil, he knocked on my door right on time.

He was on the porch holding two very large bags full of the diner food he promised delivery for. That he pinky promised. I couldn’t contain my happy dance when I saw the bags.

“Wearing that and dancing for me? It must be my lucky night.” He kicked his shoes off and stepped into the living room.

“Woah, who said you were staying?”

“Hey, now. I went all the way over there and back to get you all this. I think I deserve to eat some food, too.”

Kelly looked up from her phone. “Brent for the second day in a row?”

I looked him up and down, biting my lip. “Fine. No funny business, though! ”

He chuckled and kissed my forehead.

This fucking guy.

He leaned down to me and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I take your business very seriously.” His eyes scanned my body with a look that said he was hungry for more.

Grabbing the bags from him, I ignored his comment and dragged them to the kitchen. I was absolutely famished from not eating enough and then throwing up. Today was shit and I was not going to process it–Evans might have ideas for therapy later.

Therapy sounded like a solid option.

But who did one talk to about witnessing a murder? Were there elite therapists too? I wouldn’t know if I could even trust another living soul enough to tell them without developing even more paranoia. Nothing would ever feel normal.

“How’s my favorite waitress?” I asked.