“She’s dead.” Like the other times I say the words, a part of me dies along with her.

This guy has green eyes and they soften like he’s apologetic. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve received some new evidence that may help us discover what caused her death.”

Anger curls within my muscles and my jaw twitches. This overwhelming sense of insanity is what I fight daily. For years, I’ve heard the whispers from the gossips in town, felt the stares of the kids in class, and I’ve sensed the pity of the men in the Reign of Terror I claim as brothers. It’s all accumulated to a black, hissing doubt in my soul.

Suicide.

It’s what everyone in town says happened. It’s in every hushed conversation people have the moment I turn my back. It’s not just from the people I couldn’t give two shits about, but the people who I consider family.

I shove away those thoughts and focus on what my father and the club have told me—what I have chosen to believe. “My mother’s death was an accident.”

He’s shaking his head and I’m fresh out of patience. I’m not doing this. Not with him. Not with anyone. “I’m not interested.”

I push off the railing and dig out the keys to my motorcycle as I bound down the steps. The detective’s behind me. He has a slow, steady stride and it irritates me that he follows across the yard and doesn’t stop coming as I swing my leg over my bike.

“What if I told you I don’t think it was an accident,” he says.

Odds are it wasn’t. Odds are every whispered taunt in my direction is true. That my father and the club drove Mom crazy, and I wasn’t enough of a reason for her to choose life.

To drown him out, I start the engine. This guy must be as suicidal as people say Mom was, because he eases in front of my bike, assuming I won’t run him down.

“Thomas,” he says.

I twist the handle to rev the engine in warning. He raises his chin like he’s finally pissed and his eyes narrow on me. “Razor.”

I let the bike idle. If he’s going to respect me by using my road name, I’ll respect him for a few seconds. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

Damn if the man doesn’t possess balls the size of Montana. He steps closer to me and drops a bomb. “I have reason to believe your mom was murdered.”

Breanna

I HAD BUTTERFLIES.

It was a combination of the nervous type and the exciting type and then they died with the utterance of one question. It’s difficult to maintain eye contact with Kyle Hewitt as he continues talking, explaining why he’s asked what he has of me. He stands a safe distance away—a little over one purple locker’s worth. “I need your help with this, Bre.”

He uses my nickname, the name reserved for my two best friends and family. I hug my folder to my chest, uncomfortable he feels like we are familiar with one another.

People pass us on their way to the gym for orientation, but he acts as if we’re alone as his just-above-a-whisper words cram together. “English is tough... Writing papers is tougher... Football practice this year has been harder than normal... My parents have expectations... In two weeks there will be college scouts... You’re smart...everyone knows this... You can make life easier on me and I can make life easier for you.”

Easy. Natural. Meant to be. The smartest girl in school assisting the athletic golden boy. Two of the town’s finest helping each other succeed, but he hasn’t really given a fine example of how this plan will benefit me.

“I’m not suggesting anything romantic.” He waves his hand in a downward motion that suggests he’d rather slit his wrist than become involved with me. This guy seriously needs to reevaluate his selling methods. Nothing good can happen from insulting the potential buyer.

Kyle grins. It’s all teeth, and until this moment, I used to adore his smile. He has black hair like me, but he’s much taller than I am and, thanks to his lifelong dedication to the game of football, he resembles a brick wall.

He’s handsome. Always has been, but he’s never been the kind who notices me. For a few seconds, I had delusions of grandeur that the reason he called my name was because he appreciated my change in appearance and, in theory, my change in attitude.

I have never been so wrong in my life.

“What do you say? Will you do it?” Kyle shoves his hands into the front pockets of his Dockers as if he’s the one who’s nervous.

Like my younger brother wore for his junior orientation yesterday, Kyle sports a white shirt, nice pants and a tie. The football coach required his entire team to dress up on the day of their orientation. I think it makes them stick out, but my younger brother claims it shows solidarity.

School starts in a few days and tonight is senior orientation. My parents are currently in a meeting with my guidance counselor while I’m being propositioned.

Propositioned. My lips tilt up sarcastically.

My goal for this evening was to be noticed. Guess I succeeded. I was noticed, but not for my new choices in clothing, hairstyle, or because I dumped my glasses for contacts. Nope, I was hunted for my brain. All exciting and swoon-worthy romance novels start off this way, right?

Kyle misreads my body language and his dark eyes brighten. “So you’ll write my English papers for the year?”

Fifty dollars per paper—that’s his offer. Standing in my sister’s second-generation hand-me-downs of a sleeveless blue blouse, shorter-than-I’ve-ever-worn jean skirt and platform sandals causes me to consider his proposal if only for the course of a heartbeat. I’m the middle of nine children and, I’ll admit, new and shiny gains my attention, but this...this is wrong.