“Mrs. Followhill, have your children ever gone missing at the mall or in a park?” I call her Mrs. Followhill because if I inherited one thing from my runaway crazy-ass grandma, it’s good manners.

“Of course.”

“How long did it take you to find them?”

She pauses before she answers because she knows where this is going. I lift a questioning eyebrow.

“Twenty-five minutes,” she admits. “The worst half hour of my life.”

“Then it suffices to say you didn’t love my sister like she was your own. She’s been missing for nearly four years now, and your ass showed up only two minutes ago, making grand announcements like a presidential candidate.”

“Four years.” She looks around her, drinking in the torn chain-link fences, cracked concrete, and boarded windows. “You still don’t know where she is?”

After the truancy officer poked Mom, Rhett finally came up with a story about Via moving in with my dad. It’s an interesting angle, considering no one knows where he is, least of all Via. Rhett went as far as faking a shit-ton of paperwork. Then he proceeded to beat my semi-unconscious mother for recklessly giving birth to kids she had no intention of raising. “As motherly as a stray cat,” he spat in her face while tromping his way out the door. The fact was, Via disappeared with zero repercussions from the system, thanks to Mrs. Followhill’s daughter. And me.

“Take a wild guess.” I flash her a sardonic smile.

She squares her shoulders, narrowing her eyes at me. “All right. Get up, Penn.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You’re anything but.” She shoves her outreached hand in my face. “Stand up.”

I laugh at that because I can. Because I’m eighteen years old and no one but a complete stranger wants to claim my ass. Because my mother died yesterday of an overdose (I’ll give her one thing—perfect timing), yet I feel absolutely nothing. She hasn’t been present in my life for as long as I can remember. Over the past two years, we’ve barely exchanged six sentences in total. Rhett didn’t shed a tear. Just told me to pack my two and a half belongings and leave, adding that he hadn’t screwed her in a year, and I should be grateful he let me stay beyond her expiration date.

“Penn, you need to come with me.” Melody is snapping her fingers in my face now. I blanked. Guess that happens when you don’t sleep for two nights straight.

“I do, huh?” I don’t know why I’m smiling. I’m in so much shit even her manicured hand can’t pull me out of it. “Remind me why?”

“The alternative is couch-surfing and slipping at school. By the way, today is the first day of class. If everything were fine, you’d be there. And you’re officially not the state’s problem. Even if you do find temporary places to stay, you’ll move around constantly, which will make it difficult to practice or even get a job. You will have no funds to sustain your football career—that is, if you move somewhere where they have a football team, and if they’ll even let you try out for a position. Not to mention, according to your file, you’re the team captain. Why lose your position? You’re going to get drafted to a D1 college if you keep it up. Complete your senior year while staying with us, and we’ll go our separate ways if that’s what you want. But at least give yourself the chance to succeed. Don’t turn this opportunity down because of your pride.”

She knows a lot about my life, but it doesn’t surprise me. Being a kid from around here, your file gets tossed around like beer pong.

“You and your sister both have more athletic talent in your pinkies than I’ve ever seen,” she adds.

“So, what, I’m going to live at your place, and we’re going to play fucking house for a year?” I crack my knuckles.

“We’re not going to play anything. We are a family. And you are welcome into it.”

“Put a lid on it, ma’am. You sound like a This Is Us episode.”

I should stop. That much I know. I’m throwing away a golden opportunity. My stupid ego will make sure I end up without a scholarship and a roof, but I’m not ready to cave in yet. I have nothing against Melody Followhill. Her daughter, on the other hand, is a different story.

“We’ll make it work.” She offers me her hand again. I don’t take it. Again.

She nudges her hand an inch closer to my face.

“Whatever your reservations are, we can work them out. I’d like to help you find your sister.”

My sister is dead, I’m tempted to say, but hell if I need another dose of pity. It’s only an assumption but an educated one. No way Via is alive and hasn’t sent me a letter, or a text, or picked up the goddamn phone in four years.