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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  CLICKBAIT

  Evelyn Dar

  Copyright © 2020 Evelyn Dar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  PROLOGUE

  “Cut the shit, Sean. We’re fucked, and you know it.” Teddy Bradley’s thunderous voice made the Lincoln town car’s spacious cabin feel as cramped as a Honda Civic. “We spent millions getting that asshole elected and what do we have to show for it?”

  Avery Bradley massaged her temples, hoping to ward off an impending headache. Being forced into an enclosed space with her parents was bad enough but the pungent smell of her mother’s liquid, and highly flammable breakfast, paired with one of her father’s habitual temper tantrums, was too much for the fifteen-year-old.

  She closed her eyes and continued massaging her pounding head, careful not to tousle the sleek, high ponytail Delia had styled twenty minutes earlier. Avery wondered if her headache was the result of a too-tight ponytail; but she knew better. It wasn’t her mother’s smelly bourbon, or her father screaming at his campaign manager through the phone, or even Delia’s snug ponytail that made her head throb.

  Avery’s headaches had been increasing in frequency and intensity over the past four months. Ever since the end of April. Ever since prom.

  Avery squeezed her eyes shut and made a fist. She dug her sharp, coffin-tip nails into her palm until the searing pain did its job and banished the memory that had almost broken free. Satisfied, she smiled, relaxed her hand, and sank into the exquisite feeling of nothingness.

  Dr. Whitney would be disappointed in her ‘unhealthy coping mechanisms’ but Dr. Whitney wasn’t here. Not that the good doctor had her best interests at heart, anyway. Avery’s psychiatrist was on Teddy’s payroll and lately, during their sessions, he had taken to saying things like, ‘There’s no use in crying over spilled milk, Avery’ and ‘Remember Avery, forgiveness is an attribute of the strong.’

  “Strong my ass,” she muttered under her breath.

  Jimmy, Teddy’s driver of five years, cleared his throat. “Mr. Bradley, sir?”

  Teddy lowered his phone and waved impatiently.

  “The GPS says there’s a pileup on the 305,” Jimmy said as fast as his southern drawl allowed. “I’m thinking we better take Butler street. It’ll be a stretch longer and we’ll have to drive straight through the–”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I don’t care.” Teddy scratched the bridge of his nose, a habit he’d picked up after his rhinoplasty last year and returned the phone to his ear. “I mean, Jesus Christ, Sean. What kind of idiot doesn’t see a goddamn truck driving the wrong way on the interstate?”

  Avery rested her forehead against the window and watched as a line of crumbling strip malls and tired roadside motels rolled past. She had never seen Clayton County up close, and to say it was a shithole was putting it mildly. She sighed, pulled out her phone and opened Instagram.

  Teddy snorted loudly. “Hell, maybe we dodged a bullet. If Winston was too stupid to swerve out the way of a truck, God knows what kind of dumb decisions he’d have made on the court.” He chuckled. “Darwinism at its finest, my friend.”

  Avery looked up and scowled, catching Teddy’s eye. He winked, and she wrestled with the urge to call him out. Life was simpler when Avery ignored Teddy’s corrupt business dealings, but earlier that morning she’d found herself riveted by a CNN segment about the late Judge Winston Carter’s incredible life.

  The former human rights attorney had spent his thirty-year career fighting for the little guy and as Avery watched grainy footage from the 90s that showed the judge sprinting across the Rwandan tundra with two small children tucked under each arm, her heart ached.

  And when the news anchor mentioned that as a young boy, the Judge himself had been adopted from Ethiopia, a tear of camaraderie rolled down her cheek. She narrowed her eyes and hardened her resolve.

  Not today, Teddy.

  Avery crossed her arms and slipped into the false bravado she donned when she squared off with her father. “Wow.” She snorted. “What a dumbass. Am I right?”

  Teddy glared at her. “Give me a sec, Sean.”

  Unable to stop herself, Avery gasped dramatically. “Oh my God Teddy, it’s as if Judge Carter wasn’t thinking about you when he was killed by a drunk driver. I’m sure if he knew how much his death would affect your chances of getting elected, he would have postponed it.” She smiled sweetly, her version of a middle finger.

  Rather than acknowledging Avery, Teddy glared at Joanna, who sat beside her.

  “Darling?”

  It took Joanna a full ten seconds to realize she was being spoken to. When she did, she merely grunted.

  Teddy snarled and smiled at the same time. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you take a break from destroying your liver and control your daughter?” He turned his nightmare-fuel of a smile on Avery. “She seems to have forgotten she’s fifteen…not fifty-five.”

  Joanna pulled off her aviators, revealing unfocused eyes and dilated pupils. “Avery dear, don’t call your father out on his disgusting and callous political maneuvering. It upsets him.” She winked at Avery and raised her glass to Teddy. “Mazel Tov.”

  Faster than Avery had ever seen her rotund father move, Teddy lunged across the cabin and snatched the glass from Joanna’s hand.

  “Impressive vocabulary.” Teddy sneered. “For a lush.”

  Joanna’s nostrils flared, and she leaned forward. “It’s bad enough you’re forcing me to go to this goddamn funeral, but if you make me go sober, I swear to Gawd, Teddy.” Her normally latent Long Island accent was creeping into her speech; a sure sign she was closer to inebriation than not.

  Avery sank into her seat; wishing she hadn’t called Teddy out.

  “Sober?” Teddy snorted. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Oh yeah?” Joanna countered. “And whose fault is that…dah’ling?”

  Charlotte.

  The sneer on Teddy’s face froze, and Joanna’s vacant eyes sprang to life.

  After several tense seconds, Joanna’s alcoholism broke the impasse, and she held out her hand. “Give it back.”

  Teddy lowered his window. “Slow down, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy obeyed, and as they rolled past an abandoned, graffiti-spattered gas station, Teddy hurled the drink – glass and all – out the window.

  Joanna crossed her arms. “You evil, son of a–”

  “Love you, too.” Teddy blew her a kiss, then wiped a sheen of sweat from his upper lip. “Turn the air up, would you, Jimmy?” He peered out the window, a distasteful look on his face. “Jesus, it’s a fucking sauna out there.” He raised the phone. “Sean? You there?”

  Avery distracted herself from Teddy’s continued verbal attacks against the late judge by counting potholes in the road. She was up to fifteen.

  Fifteen potholes…fifteen-years-old…fifteen-months-old. Avery squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails into her palm, but this time to no avail.

 
This wasn’t just a memory that needed to be stuffed down, tucked away and ignored. This was the shadow of the girl who haunted everything Avery had done and would ever do. A girl she’d never met but hated just the same.

  The hypnotic rattle of Joanna’s pill bottle lifted Avery out of her self-pitying haze. She resumed her Instagram scroll and pretended to ignore the rattling, as did everyone else in the car. It was the world’s worst kept secret that Joanna hid her Vicodin in a travel-sized Aleve bottle. Avery knew it. Jimmy knew it. And Teddy knew it too.

  Despite her many shortcomings, Avery loved Joanna as much as Joanna would let her, and there were certainly worst mothers in the world. The former Ms. Teen Long Island taught Avery how to hold her own in front of ‘pretentious bastards like Teddy,’ how to mix the perfect whiskey sour and how to weaponize her sexuality in any situation.

  Sure, Joanna would never win mother of the year, but Avery wasn’t sure she wanted a mother who would. Besides, Joanna wouldn’t be Joanna without a drink in her hand, pills in her purse, and a smidge of white powder permanently embedded under her right pinky nail.

  “Sean, listen to me,” Teddy growled. “This is Georgia and I’m a rich, white Democrat from New England. I cannot win without the black vote and Winston was my ace in the hole.”

  Teddy fell silent for the first time since they’d left Buckhead and Avery smiled. She could already feel her headache fading.

  “What?” Teddy roared, shattering the silence. “You think a photo-op with Winston’s white widow at his shitty College Park funeral will get me the black vote?” He scratched his nose vigorously. “You better find me a new platform, Sean. I don’t know why I’m paying you so goddamn much.” He slammed his cell phone against the side of the door. “Fuck!”

  Joanna chuckled. Jimmy cleared his throat, and Avery winced.

  Teddy took several deep breaths, then squinted out the window and frowned. “Jesus Christ, it looks like a fucking war zone out there. Jimmy, tell me we’re almost there.”

  “ETA less than two minutes, sir.”

  “Thank God,” Teddy said. “If we go any deeper into the ghetto, I’ll have to change my name to Trayvon.”

  Jimmy grunted. “Sir.”

  Avery couldn’t help herself. “Gee, I don’t know why black voters don’t adore you, Teddy?”

  “Sarcasm?” Teddy asked without looking at her.

  “Something like that.”

  Teddy chuckled. “Why don’t you save the ‘social justice warrior’ bullshit for the campaign trail where it actually matters. And for fuck’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Daddy. It polls better.”

  Avery sank into her seat. “Right…Daddy.”

  II

  “Mom?” Laylah called as she hurried through the kitchen. She bypassed stacks of Tupperware filled with quiches, crock pots overflowing with stews, and bow-tied baskets stuffed with baked goods. The benevolent food invasion began two days after her father died and now, almost a full week later, the sight of it made Laylah nauseous. It was just one more reminder, from an already too-long list, that her father was really gone.

  “Mom?” Laylah jogged down the hallway, checking rooms as she went. Laundry room? Empty. Dining room? Nope. Guest bedroom? Not there either. Library? No mom.

  Laylah fruitlessly searched the upstairs bedrooms and even the backyard gazebo where her mother sometimes snuck the occasional cigarette while watching the ducks bathe in the lake. Not today.

  She returned inside and checked the time. 8:20 a.m. The funeral was scheduled to start in forty minutes, and the ride to the church would take approximately fifty-three. Logically, she knew the funeral couldn’t start without them, but this past week, her trusty, dependable logic had gone on hiatus only to be replaced by fickle and exhausting waves of emotion that threatened to crush her. The struggle to keep her head above water was draining and Laylah was so tired she could barely stand. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered to herself. “Everything will be fine. You know what to do, Laylah…just do it, baby girl.”

  Laylah opened her eyes, expecting the magic of her father’s words to restore her reason and calm, but the pep talk was less impactful without him, and her childish-sounding voice was a poor substitute for his authoritative baritone.

  As she stood in the hallway brainstorming more potential ‘mom hiding spots,’ the air conditioner kicked on and the scent of vanilla and peaches floated by. For as long as Laylah could remember, Gale Carter wore only one perfume – Peach D’ LaCrème. Laylah followed her nose to the slightly ajar door at the end of the hallway. She paused, took a deep breath and pushed it open.

  The woman with the limp blonde hair secured by a messy bun only vaguely resembled Gale Carter. Dark circles permanently embedded under once lively green eyes. Hard lines on porcelain skin that seemed to have appeared overnight. A dispassionate expression that rarely strayed from its preferred neutral setting. Her mother’s face now reminded Laylah of one of those realistic ‘old lady’ Halloween masks. One she’d give anything to yank off.

  If today were any other day, Laylah might have chuckled at the sight of her mother seated at her father’s antique roll-top desk. Gale had always hated the oversized oak monstrosity. According to her, the desk was old-fashioned; it matched nothing in the house, and it was fugly.

  “Mom?” Laylah leaned forward, not wanting to go in but having no choice. She hadn’t stepped foot inside her father’s study since he died, and as she willed herself across its threshold now, goose pimples sprouted along her arms. She approached the desk reluctantly. “Mom?”

  Gale was frowning at a framed photograph on the otherwise bare desk. She looked at Laylah with hazy eyes. “Honey?”

  “Mom, we’re late,” Laylah said gently. “The limo’s waiting.”

  “I’m sorry, I was…” Gale stared at the photo. “Just remembering.” She chuckled. “He was the only human being I’d ever met that hated Disney World.”

  Laylah frowned and peered over her mother’s shoulder at the picture. It was an old vacation pic; one she’d seen countless times before. With the Epcot ball looming in the background, the three of them stood between Goofy and Donald Duck. Goofy’s ginormous arm rested on Laylah’s nine-year-old shoulders, and although her father rarely smiled in photos, in this one he was absolutely beaming.

  “He doesn’t look like he hates it,” Laylah said.

  “Look at yourself,” her mother whispered.

  Laylah raised an eyebrow but picked up the photo and studied the awkward nine-year-old she remembered herself being.

  Too skinny, too tall – even then – and not enough teeth for the huge but unselfconscious grin she was giving the camera. Her glasses were too large for her tiny head, and her long, curly hair was as unruly as ever.

  “What about me?” Laylah asked.

  “He always matched your happy,” Gale said.

  “My what?”

  “Your happy,” her mother repeated. “No matter how Winston felt inside, he always used to say, ‘if my baby girl’s happy, I’m happy.’”

  Laylah abruptly set the photo down. She hated how quickly her mother had begun referring to her father in the past tense. “Mom, we’re already late. We need to go, now.”

  Gale gazed around the room as if seeing it for the first time, and the flustered expression on her face made Laylah’s heart ache.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Gale shook her head. “I must have left the door to his study open. I went to shut it and”–fresh tears spilled down her cheeks–“I smelled him…his cologne, and I-I had to check. You know?” Her face fell. “I had to check.”

  Guilt swept over Laylah, and she opened her arms and held her weeping mother. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  ++++

  Ten minutes later, after having sobbed most of her makeup off, Gale’s tears finally subsided. Wordlessly, Laylah took her mother by the hand and led her upstairs to the master suite. She
lovingly cleaned her mother’s mascara-streaked face and helped reapply her makeup as best she could. Seconds after they finished, she heard a series of rhythmic knocks on the door that sounded suspiciously like Halsey’s latest single.

  “You can come in, Maddox,” Laylah called. “We’re decent.”

  Maddox stepped inside and straightened his bow tie. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, ladies.”

  Laylah rolled her eyes at her best friend. “You’re fifteen.”

  “Perhaps.” Maddox primped his barely existent beard, the current pride of his life. “But I’m an old fifteen.”

  Laylah grabbed his chin and squinted. “Are you sure this thing isn’t spray-painted on?”

  Maddox swatted her hand away and cursed in Hindi. “Babes, you know I come from a hairy race of people. In two months, this thing will be past my knees. Just wait.”

  Laylah loudly whispered in her mother’s ear. “It’s a lace front, Mom. Don’t let him fool you.”

  Gale attempted a smile, but it fell miserably flat.

  Laylah felt her own smile fading when Maddox bowed deeply to her mother and held out his arm.

  “Principal Carter,” he said in an almost convincing French accent. “I have been given ze honor of escorting mademoiselle to ze – how you say, limousine?”

  Gale stood and took Maddox’s arm. “Sir.”

  Maddox held his free arm out to Laylah. “Is ze younger mademoiselle ready?”

  Laylah stared at his arm, suddenly feeling as if she might throw up.

  “Honey? What’s wrong?” Gale asked.

  Laylah looked at her mother but couldn’t answer. Her body had stopped taking orders from her brain and as she stared into her mother’s worried face; she was helpless to respond.

  This was it. Once she took Maddox’s arm, they would go to the church and once she walked inside the church, it would become official. No take-backs.

  Maddox dropped the French accent and whispered, “Hey, it’s okay. Everything will be fine. You know what to do, Laylah.”