ADDICTED

JAMES

Heavy.

That single word described the gravity of my entire world.

My body felt like boulders were strapped to my shoulders. The air felt so dense that each movement was a momentous effort.

The looks from my mother, my father—even my perpetually dazed sister—felt intolerably weighted.

Depression wasn't exactly new for me.

When Marissa died from a drug overdose, I was broken. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't think or do anything for myself. My world lost purpose without her. I was just a body floating through space, pushed and pulled by external forces.

Time was inconsequential. My other relationships and responsibilities ceased to matter. Everything was devoid of joy and overall very dull.

Losing a brother, however, was considerably different from losing a lover and partner.

Despite our differences, Jarrod always stood by me and protected me. I had always done the same for him. No one in the world understood us the way we understood each other.

Perhaps a lot of that came from a demanding childhood in which we rarely interacted with our parents and yet were raised knowing we had to become greatness. If we failed to find success, we would be written out of the family and the will. Failure was not forgiven.

What an unbearable pressure to put on children.

We wanted to play but we were forced to study, to join our father at business meetings, to behave as adults when we were just gangly boys longing for fun and mischief.

There was no point lamenting about our childhood now, though. Jarrod was an adult when he made his fatal decisions.

His unexpected and jarring death sent our entire family careening into a deep, dark pit. We never had time to grieve his death. Not between the flurry of stalking reporters and pleading our case for police brutality.

Although we ultimately did win the case, the acknowledgment of the wrong done against my brother brought no reprieve for this misery. The man who killed my brother would be in jail for a long time. Still, I felt a reckless anger that remained unsated with this end.

I realized too late that nothing would ever bring my brother back. Just because we got justice did not mean we got peace.

Only now, twelve months later, did we permit ourselves to truly grieve. The effects were crippling. It showed on every single one of us, in the new lines in our faces and hunch in our postures.

I was exhausted from a year of settling the case, managing my career as a court informant, figuring out where I wanted to live, and trying to process the reality of the ashes sitting in an elegant Venetian vase on a fireplace mantle.

A few pounds of gray, powdery sediment were the only remnants of my brother left on this earth.

Passing time meant nothing to my grief. My wounds hadn't healed. They hadn't even scabbed over. If anything, they had festered.

I was angrier than ever.

A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. I looked over myself in the mirror and ran my hands down the solid black suit. The dark color contrasted my ghostly complexion and I flinched when my eyes met those in my reflection.

"Honey? Are you ready?" called my mother from outside the door.

I'd forgotten already that she had knocked.

Fuck. Rubbing my temple, I turned from the mirror and strode to the door.

Her solemn face greeted me. Though her makeup was flawless, masking the signs of age around her mouth and eyes, her eyes were tinged with pain.

The grief my mother had endured these last months was something no parent should ever have to endure.

Not only had her son died, but he'd been murdered. The case of a murdered socialite had been very public, not just in my family's affluent circles but in the medical community as well.

It wasn't as though my father helped to ease her grief, either. They may have both been shitty parents but at least my mother tried to care.

Our father would rather be putting on a green than here, I did not doubt it. His greatest love in life was success, and his son's death was the greatest failure of all. Although he would never admit it, I knew he believed Jarrod was a disgrace.

His son had committed the ultimate treason by obsessing over some plebeian girl who got him killed.

She might as well have killed him herself.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I answered my mother, folding my darkening thoughts away.

Her eyes welled with tears as she leaned up onto her tiptoes, cupping my cheeks in her papery palms. I closed my eyes to seal off the heartfelt look on her face. I couldn't bear her pain, too.

Taking a deep breath, I lifted a wall inside my mind to protect my already shattered heart.

"Oh, James." She shuddered with a sob. "I don't know when we'll ever be okay again."

I opened my eyes and stooped down to wrap my arms around her.

We stood that way until my father shouted for us in the foyer. My mother and I parted with a knowing look. Aside from me, she probably cared the most for Jarrod, and our anguish bonded us tighter than ever before.

My father waited for us in the foyer with my sister. His suit matched my own and I realized how similar we looked, both tall and lean with severe faces. When our eyes met, the distance in his struck me directly in the chest.

His mouth curved downward as he turned to the door. I glanced at Julia.

Her short black lace dress contrasted the sterile white granite floors and pale cream walls around us. She was always thin, but she appeared truly gaunt now. Her gaze never left the floor.

I hadn't given much thought to Julia's feelings lately, so consumed by my own.

Not too long ago, I had been seated beside her in the hospital while she grieved over the loss of her unborn child. Even Jarrod had come to see her, but he'd been so distracted by that woman that his heart wasn't in it. I thought then that our family was crumbling.

Those were our last days together, all of us. How pitiful that tragedy was the only way to bring us together?

We all followed my father through the front door. A freshly waxed, cream-colored Cadillac waited under the portico for us. We piled in, my father in the passenger seat and the rest of us in the back. Julia chose the middle seat but I noticed how she subtly leaned closer to my side.

As the driver guided us to the cemetery, one of her hands drifted down to palm the side of her stomach. She often touched her belly in some mindless, reminiscent way.

I wondered if she still felt pregnant. Maybe for her, it was like she had lost a limb and now phantom pains haunted her.

Feeling my gaze, Julia lifted her eyes to mine. Her pupils were dark, unreadable.

Although her flesh was healed of the sores and acne that had riddled her in the hospital—either a result of the drugs or pregnancy I wasn't sure—she seemed almost too pallid to be alive. Her cheeks were hollowed, her eyes slightly bulging.

I was suddenly struck with a fresh pang of concern for her.

A year had passed and yet I had never seen her cry for our deceased brother. I knew she must have been distraught over his death. Perhaps losing her child and then her brother was too much. I needed to check on her more. If she did something stupid and risked her life too, our family truly would fall apart.

I grabbed the other hand wrapped around her phone and squeezed it, my eyes flitting to the window.

We passed through the ornate wrought iron arch that stood as a sentinel over the sprawling cemetery. Headstones flit by, little pale fingers of all different shapes and sizes rising from the unnaturally green grass. The occasional mausoleum or angel statue speckled the landscape and interrupted the monotonous rows of markers that all looked the same.

I couldn't recall the last time I visited a cemetery. Even when my parents had Jarrod's headstone placed in our family plot, none of us came. For all I cared, it was just a block of black granite. His actual body was intermingling with dust on my mother's hearth.

The driver parked beside the short wrought iron fence surrounding the Muller plot. A ten-foot headstone was positioned at the head of it with MULLER carved out in large, capital letters.

We all slid out of the car and a wet coolness settled over me. Julia reclaimed my hand almost immediately. I risked a glance at her before surveying the small crowd hovering around.

There seemed to be twenty or so people, all of whom had received private invitations. We had taken extra precautions to ensure the funeral details weren't leaked to the public.

My eyes raked over the dark-clad individuals, searching for any signs of cameras or reporters. I was angry enough to chase them out of here myself. Fortunately, as I looked, I recognized the visitors as family friends and a few of Jarrod's friends from medical school and undergrad.

There were, however, two people who seemed out of place. They stood several feet removed from the grave murmurings of the crowd. My gaze zeroed in on the feminine shapes. One of them, the shorter of the two, turned just slightly. Her profile triggered the dusty memory of my brother's courtroom nearly two years ago.

Rage burned through me and I released my sister's hand, lunging forward.

A cold hand gripped my forearm. I barely saw my mother's warning face before I shook her off and marched over to the crowd.

A few glanced over at my hurried movements but I ignored them. Every cell in my body was focused on that bitch.

I could never forget her face. Forged into my memory from that fateful day my brother was sentenced to prison, I had secretly longed to wrap my hands around her throat.

She did all of this.

My brother was dead because of her.

She was the last goddamned person on this planet who deserved to be here.

As I neared, the taller woman stepped into my path and blocked my focused sights. I turned my cutting glare onto this new obstacle. Her eyes were a fierce, cutting blue framed by thick dark lashes and porcelain skin.

I lifted my chin and narrowed my own eyes, challenging. This was Leah's witness from the court. I couldn't remember her name but I remembered what she said against my brother—that he'd sent texts from Leah's phone, pretending to be her.

"It's okay," said a small voice from behind the woman.

Leah stepped into view again and suddenly I forgot about her bodyguard. She was somehow smaller than I remembered, her body swatched in a long, black dress that cinched around her waist. Her blonde hair was tied into a bun at the nape of her neck. As we assessed each other, her nude-painted lips trembled. Our eyes met and a spike of heat pierced my chest.

Leaning towards her, I hissed, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

To my surprise, tears gathered in her eyes and she twisted her face away. She hastily wiped the dampness from her cheeks before lifting her face back to mine. I physically shuddered at the agony in her eyes. They were a combination of light brown and dark green, but a darkness seemed to somehow dim the beautiful colors. I knew what broken looked like—had bore witness to it all my life—and I knew it was standing here, quivering in front of me.

The scalding, rupturing wrath I had so carefully contained just . . . withered. I thought this bitch would see the haunt in my eyes and feel shame. I hadn't expected to see my horrors reflected in her own.

"I received an invitation," Leah murmured, her voice hardly audible. She squeezed her hands together and looked down at her feet. "I just thought—I don't know. I know it doesn't make sense but—"

"James." My mother's cold hand wrapped around my bicep.

I swallowed and tore my gaze away from Leah. Did my mother not realize who this woman was? She'd never seen her in person, but surely she had seen the hundreds of news articles plastered with her face and headlines damning my brother.

"The ceremony is beginning," my mother said. "Come join us."

I looked at both of the unwelcome women again. Leah dipped her head and took an unsteady breath. I hated how the sight of her unsettled me so much.

I hated her.

My rage returned as I met the glowering gaze of her friend.

Clenching my jaw, I allowed my mother to guide me back to where my father and Julia stood close but without touching. Julia hugged herself and glanced around, looking like she wanted to either run or grab someone.

My mother squeezed my arm. I lifted my eyes across the family plot to where Leah and her friend still hovered at the edge of the crowd.

How could I focus on mourning Jarrod when the woman who caused all of this was here? Who the fuck invited her in the first place?

I had personally made sure to keep this event as quiet as possible. The media hunted families like mine for sport, and we had dealt with enough of their shit for a year now.

As far as I knew, my mother had extended invitations only to friends and family. There was no way Leah should have been here.

My father led the service with a few supporting lines from my mother. They spoke what probably seemed like endearing words to them. Their sentiments rang shallowly in my ears. At some point, Julia returned to my side and took my hand back. I didn't pull away like I initially was tempted to. She must have sensed my fury because she tugged on my hand.

"It's okay," she whispered.

Those were probably the first words she'd spoken to me in months. Gritting my teeth, I fixed my stare back onto Leah. My sister didn't even know what okay meant anymore. If she thought I would stand for Leah to participate in this as if she deserved to mourn, she was even farther gone than I thought.

Leah's eyes flicked up to meet mine. My body ached with vengeful impulses. I wanted to show her the pain she had put me and my family through. I wanted her to see what she had done to us, to me. Her presence here was unwanted. If not for my mother, I would have gladly yanked her back to her car by her hair.

"James?"

My head snapped back towards my parents.

My mother was staring up at me with wet eyes and streaked cheeks. "Would you like to say a few words?"