“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you at your art show.” Inserting my key into the lock, the knob turned easily. As if it was already unlocked. Fear froze in my veins. “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?”

Occasionally, Monica paid me a visit while I worked to raid my fridge but unless she got off early, it couldn’t have been her that left my door unlocked. The rational part of me screamed to call the police. My gut told me otherwise. I went with my gut and locked eyes with Andrew.

“You said you played a lot of hand to hand combat games?”

Andrew’s left eyebrow quirked. “Yeah. What’s going on?”

I beckoned him to come away from the door. I didn’t want whoever was in my apartment to hear our plan. The element of surprise was crucial.

“My apartment is unlocked and it wasn’t me who left it that way.” Before he could react, I plunged on. “I’m going to check it out. Will you play backup?”

“I’m taller than you and stronger. You can play backup.” I opened my mouth to protest when he cut me off with a stern look. “Don’t fight me on this, Haven.”

“Whatever. Take this pepper spray.”

His fingers closed around the can. “Ready?”

“Let’s do this.”

Andrew swiped me behind him as we entered my pitch-black apartment. The neon glow from the sign of the Sex Shop across the street was our only source of light. My pulse thrummed in my ears. Steadily but quietly we made our way into my living room. Andrew came to a jerking halt and I nearly ran into him.

“Whomever the fuck you are, you better have a good excuse,” he boomed while lifting the pepper spray in front of him.

Sneaking a peek, I could see a young Asian girl had her hands lifted in the air. Her bleach blonde hair with faded pink highlights was teased at the roots. An off the shoulder sweatshirt hid the cigarette burns on her back given to her by her father. I knew this because at night when we couldn’t sleep, we would compare scars to see who was more broken. She would always win. Nobody was more broken than her. I winced at the sight of her sunken in cheekbones and hollow eyes. When we’d last seen each other six months ago she seemed to be getting her life in order. What happened?

I touched Andrew’s arm. “It’s fine. She’s my sister.”

He glanced between us, confused at how I had an Asian sister when I was as white as a bed sheet. Everybody was until I clarified.

“Stepsister. Her dad was my mom’s second husband.”

“Second and third husband,” Sumiko corrected.

“Right.”

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered the pepper spray. “I’m beyond words right now.”

“It’s better that way. My family history is messed up and lengthy,” I responded. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Of course. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Sumiko waited until he was out of earshot to speak but once she did, I wished she’d never stopped by. “Your mom owes Big Ted Money. ”

“My mom’s dead.”

“Duh! Really nice of you to attend her funeral by the way.”

Sinking into the couch cushions, I propped my feet on the coffee table. “I’m not in the mood for a guilt trip.”

Sumiko searched my face and whatever she saw made her drop the subject. Thank Jesus. While she understood messed up family dynamics better than anyone, there was this thing called honor Sumiko had I didn’t. She sat next to me and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Big Ted says your mom owes him twelve hundred dollars. Supposedly, she went on a bender,” Sumiko said.

“You can tell Big Ted to shove it up his ass. That bender is what killed her.”

“You don’t understand, Haven. He said he would kill you—and me,” she added quietly.

Big Ted, my mom’s drug dealer, specialized in empty threats so it was hard to take Sumiko seriously.

“That’s not going to happen. Big Ted is a giant gangsta teddy bear that doesn’t know how to work a gun, let alone shoot one. Besides, since when are you his messenger?”

Sumiko’s silence spoke volumes. She wasn’t worried about him killing her; she was worried about him cutting off her supply. My throat went dry as revulsion rolled.

She avoided my gaze as I gripped her upper arm. “You were clean for the past three years! Why?”

Sumiko stood and in the red neon glow, I noticed her dry cracked lips. They were the lips of a crack addict. This was bad, really bad. Sumiko had popped pills like candy when we were teenagers but her father sent her to rehab. Yes, the same father that abused her. Their relationship was a complicated web of lies and manipulation. When Sumiko left rehab, she’d wiped the slate clean.

I buried my head into my hands. “You were doing so well.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am.”

Another family member lost to the abuse of drugs. There were countless opportunities during my childhood to fall to the same fate. However, I never wanted to end up like my mother. A life revolving around drugs wasn’t a life at all. The front door slammed shut. Lifting my face, Sumiko was no longer in my living room. An awful gut wrenching sense of mistrust propelled me to my feet. In the past, the feeling would be unjustified. While Sumiko and I weren’t blood sisters, a deep bond had formed in the years we were family. Unfortunately family didn’t mean anything when crack was concerned. Entering my bedroom, everything appeared exactly how I left it until I reached my bed. The sheets were un-tucked at the corners. With trepidation, I lifted my mattress and stuck my hand underneath. Nothing.

“No, no,” I cried. “No, please no!”

Panic coursed through my veins as I did another sweep. My five hundred dollars was gone. Tears wet my cheeks. I flung a framed picture of Sumiko and I against the wall. Glass exploded in the air, littering the ground. The metallic smell of blood scented the air as I sunk to my knees. Sumiko not only stole my money, she stole my dream.

Minutes, seconds, hours later Andrew found me on the floor, surrounded by the remains of Sumiko’s and my relationship. Wordlessly, he lifted me off the floor and laid my limp body on the couch. It was nearing four a.m. and the emotional and physical aftermath of the day had caught up with me. My eyelids grew heavy.

Andrew ran his fingertip across my palm. “You need stitches.”

“No I don’t. I need sleep.”

“Do you not see how deep this gash is?”

I squinted at my hand. There was a red mark that ran perpendicular to my thumb. Dried blood bubbled at the entry wound. Whatever. I’ve had worse.

Andrew sensed my indifference. “Do you have a first aid kit? I’ll patch it up the best I can but you will have a scar.”

“Add it to the arsenal.”

His thigh tensed underneath my hand. Turning my head into the seat cushion, I bit my lower lip. That was stupid of me to say. Pity was by far the worst emotion next to sympathy. The couch dipped as Andrew stood to go find the supplies he needed. When he returned, he tended to my wound with expertise. I watched as he crisscrossed a white bandage across my palm, around my wrist, and taped it in place.

“You seem like you know what you’re doing,” I commented.

“My mom was a nurse.”

“Was?”

Andrew added another a silver of tape. “She quit when my sister and I were born. My dad was an old fashioned guy and believed the woman should stay home. You know? Cook, clean, only real role in life was to bear children.” The bitterness in his tone was evident. “My mom didn’t seem to mind but I know she missed nursing. Over the years, she kind of became the neighborhood nurse. All the kids and their parents used to come to her when something went wrong.”

Although, my hand throbbed, I would have shattered another picture frame to get a glimpse into his childhood that seemed so vastly different than mine.

“Your mom sounds like an amazing woman. What does your dad do?”