Twisted(28)

George sighs. “I hardly think that’s what Kate would want you to do, Carol. They’re adults—”

My mother’s voice rises, high-pitched and protective. “She’s not an adult to me! She’s my baby! And she’s hurting. He broke her heart . . . and . . . I don’t know if she’s going to get through this. It’s like she’s just . . . given up.”

I hear a hand slap against the wood table. “That little . . . punk! He’s a foul-mouthed, smart-ass little punk. And he’s not going to get away with this!” Her tone is determined.

And a little scary.

“You’re right—I won’t call Anne. I’m going to New York myself. I’ll show him what happens when you mess with my daughter. He’ll think Amelia Warren is Mother Fucking Teresa when I’m done with him. I’ll rip his balls off!”

Holy Moley.

Okay, my mother? Doesn’t curse. Ever. So the fact that she’s dropping f-bombs and talking about the ripping off of balls?

Frankly, it’s disturbing.

I walk down the rest of the steps, like I haven’t heard a thing.

“Morning.”

My mother’s face is slack. Shocked. “Kate. You’re up.”

I nod. “Yes. I’m feeling . . . better.”

Better might be too strong. Resurrected road kill is more accurate.

George offers me a mug. “Coffee?”

My hand covers my queasy stomach. “No, thanks.”

My mother shakes off her surprise and asks, “How about some warm Coca-Cola?”

“Yeah. That sounds good.”

She gets it for me. Then she smooths my hair down as she says, “When I was pregnant with you, I was sick for seven months. Warm Coca-Cola always made me feel better. Plus if it comes back up, it doesn’t taste all that bad.”

She’s got a point.

FYI—peanut butter? So not fun the second time around.

My mother’s brow wrinkles as she notices the uniform. “Are all your clothes dirty? Do you need me to do some laundry?”

“No, I just thought I’d help out in the diner today. You know—keep busy. So I don’t have too much time to think.”

Thinking is bad. Thinking is very, very bad.

George smiles.

My mom rubs my arm. “As long as you’re feeling up to it. Mildred is working today, so I could certainly use the help.”

Mildred has worked at our restaurant for as long as I can remember. She’s a terrible waitress—I think my mother just keeps her on out of charity. Legend says that she was once a beauty queen—Miss Kentucky, or Louisiana, or something like that. But she lost her looks and her zest for life when her fiancé played chicken with an oncoming freight train. And lost.

Now she lives in the apartment complex downtown, and smokes two packs a day.

But she’ll probably live to be a hundred and seven—compared to the thirty-one-year-old mother of three who’s never touched a cigarette a day in her life, yet somehow still dies from lung cancer.

Like I said, God? He’s a real sick son of a bitch sometimes.



Waitressing skills are like riding a bike—you never really forget.

Though there are a few close calls, I manage to get through the morning without vomiting in any of the customers’ pancake platters or scrambled eggs.

Golf clap for me.

The toughest part is the questions. About New York—about my handsome boyfriend who came here with me to visit three months ago. I smile and keep my answers short and vague.

By noon, I’m pretty much wiped out. Physically and mentally. I’m just about to retreat to my room for a nap when the bell above the door rings, and a voice comes from behind me.

A voice I would know anywhere.





Chapter 10


“Katie Brooks in a cowgirl uniform. Is this for real, or some freakishly vivid acid flashback?”

I was six years old the first time I laid eyes on Billy Warren. Around the same time that Joey Martino was abandoning Amelia in that hotel room? Her younger sister, Sophie, was being kicked out of the house.

Because she was pregnant too.

Apparently the elder Mrs. Warren subscribed to the Mommie Dearest style of parenting—wire hangers and all. Anyway, five years later, Sophie died in a drug den from a meth overdose. The state took custody of Billy until they were able to track down his only living relative, Amelia Warren.

Delores stayed with us for the weekend while her mother went to California to get him. Amelia walked into the group home and saw a small, hollow-eyed little boy in a ripped black T-shirt. And from that moment on, Billy was hers—even though she hadn’t given birth to him.

For the first four months that Billy lived with Amelia and Delores, he didn’t speak. At all. He followed us around, did everything we did. When we played school he was the chalkboard, when we dug for buried treasure, he was our pack mule.

But he didn’t talk.

And then one day Amelia was running errands on Main Street, and they passed a pawn shop. Billy stopped in his tracks. And stared into the front window.

At a shiny red guitar.

Amelia went in and bought it for him. By this time I was pretty good at playing, so she figured my father could give Billy lessons too. But—here’s the thing—before my dad got around to giving him even one lesson? Billy already knew how to play. He was a prodigy, like Mozart. A true musical genius.