Chapter 2

Alice stood on the cobblestone driveway outside the estate gates. She reached into her pocket for her phone to check the nearest bus route.

A deafening roar of an engine tore through the quiet neighborhood.

A beat-up, dust-covered Ford F-150 slammed on its brakes, skidding to a halt mere inches from her legs. A cloud of dirt washed over her.

Alice frowned. She took a half-step back, her fingers slipping into her pocket to pinch a cold, ancient copper coin.

The truck door groaned open with a terrible screech. A massive man jumped out. He wore a faded flannel shirt covered in drywall dust and scuffed work boots. He had a heavy stubble and a hard, weathered face.

But the moment his eyes locked onto Alice, the harshness vanished. His pupils dilated, and his chest heaved.

"Alice?" he choked out, his voice trembling. He said her mother's name like a prayer.

Alice's mind raced, sifting through the merged memories.

Byron Morrow. Her third uncle. A construction worker.

Before she could speak, the heavy oak doors of the estate swung open. Richard Wallace stormed out, flanked by two burly security guards.

Richard stopped, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he looked at the dirty truck.

"Get this trailer trash off my driveway," Richard spat. "You're polluting the air."

Byron didn't even look at Richard. His eyes were glued to Alice's arms. The sleeves of her hospital gown had slipped, revealing the dark purple bruises and raised whip marks.

The muscles in Byron's jaw locked. His massive fists clenched at his sides. The knuckles popped loudly, one by one. The air around him suddenly felt heavy, suffocatingly dangerous.

"Get him out of here," Richard ordered.

One of the guards stepped forward, shoving his hand against Byron's chest.

Byron moved. It was a blur. He grabbed the guard by the collar, planting his heavy work boots firmly on the ground. With a violent surge of raw, physical strength, he shoved the two-hundred-pound man backward with both hands, driving him relentlessly until he slammed back-first into the hood of the Ford.

The metal caved in with a sickening crunch.

Richard stumbled backward, his face draining of color. "I'm calling the police! You violent thug!"

Byron turned his head slowly. He took one step toward Richard.

"Shut your mouth," Byron growled, his voice so low it vibrated in the ground.

Alice stepped forward. She reached out and gently tugged on the rough fabric of Byron's flannel sleeve.

"I want to leave," she said quietly.

The murderous rage vanished from Byron's face instantly. He looked down at her and offered a clumsy, awkward smile.

He turned to the passenger side of the truck, yanked the door open, and furiously scrubbed the already clean seat with his dusty sleeve. He gestured for her to get in.

Candice came running out of the gates, pointing a shaking finger at Alice.

"You ungrateful bitch!" Candice shrieked. "Go on! Leave with this bottom-feeding trash!"

Alice stood by the open truck door. She looked back at Candice. Her eyes were completely dead, looking at the woman as if she were already a corpse.

"Good luck," Alice said flatly.

She climbed into the high cabin of the truck.

Byron slammed the door shut. He walked around to the driver's side, shooting one last lethal glare at Candice.

He turned the key. The engine roared. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, intentionally blowing a massive cloud of thick black exhaust smoke straight into the faces of the Wallace couple.

The truck merged onto the highway.

The cabin smelled like motor oil and stale tobacco. Byron looked incredibly nervous. He quickly reached out and snapped off the static-filled country music playing on the radio, afraid it was too loud for her.

He dug into the center console and pulled out a squished, plastic-wrapped convenience store sandwich.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his face flushing red. "I didn't have time to get real food."

Alice took the sandwich. She didn't feel disgust. She felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth in her chest.

She looked over at him. Her eyes narrowed.

Coiled around the back of Byron's neck was a thick, pulsing mass of black energy. A curse.

Byron kept his eyes on the road, sighing heavily. "The Morrows are just blue-collar folks, Alice. We can't give you the fancy life those Wallaces did."

Alice tore open the plastic wrapper and took a bite of the dry bread.

"I don't need it," Alice said, chewing slowly. "I'm very good at making money."

Just as she spoke, her phone buzzed. A loud, retro cash register ringtone echoed in the cramped cabin.