Chapter 1

"What took you so long?" Nigel, my brother and boss, asks. "I'm starving,"

"Sorry," I mumble.

Why am I apologizing? I only left the office twenty minutes ago. Besides, it's not my job to fetch him lunch. But I do. Every day.

I put his large Coke, burger, and fries on the only clear spot on his desk, take my wrap and bottle of water to mine, and sit.

"Don't get comfy, Harris. I need you to run to the wholesalers and get more cleaning fluid. Mikey has run out and needs you to take it to him, stat."

My stomach growls as I stare at Nigel, open-mouthed. Also not my job. I shouldn't be surprised—not anymore. Yet for some reason, my brother's unreasonable demands shock me every time. Or maybe I'm just hoping that today will be the day he transforms from a tyrant into a good, caring boss. I can dream.

"Well? What are you still doing here? Get," Nigel says.

I clench my teeth and talk through them as calmly as possible. "Can't Mikey go to the wholesalers?"

"No, he's in the middle of a job. A job he won't be able to finish to a high standard without the cleaning fluid you're going to get him. Unless you want to handle the complaint when it comes in?"

Customer service isn't part of my job either.

"Oh, and the accountant called. She needs those figures I promised her yesterday," Nigel says.

Apparently, my job description isn't worth the paper it's printed on.

I glance at my lunch.

"Why are you still here? I don't pay you to stand around gawping," Nigel says.

"It's my lunch break."

He raises his eyebrows and gives me a stare that would freeze a lava flow.

"Can I take the van?"

"No. Mitchell has the van keys. You'll need to take your car."

"I'm not insured to drive it for running work errands."

Nigel rolls his eyes. "And whose fault is that? Not mine. You should do something about that. But for now, don't worry about it. No one's going to find out you've been naughty." He says the last sentence like he's talking to a three-year-old.

I take my lunch and stalk out of the Portakabin Nigel runs his business out of. If he weren't family, I'd—I'd?—

I sigh. I'd probably still do what I'm told and let myself get walked all over, but I'd look for another job simultaneously. I did look for another job. Once. I even got to the interview stage. Nigel found out and guilt-tripped me into cancelling it.

"What would I do without you, Harris?"

"The success of my business depends on you."

"We're family. How could you let me down like this?"

"I had your back when you needed me to."

"Where would you be if I hadn't given you a job after you were made redundant?"

"I'm the reason you still have a roof over your head. You should be more grateful, Harris."

And on and on.

I eat while I drive, snatching bites of my wrap while waiting at red lights. I have to call Nigel to ensure I get the right cleaning fluid, which earns me an earful about how I should know by now and why he has to do everything. Honestly, it would be great if he'd do something except sit at his desk, throwing his weight around and eating greasy food.

I drop the cleaning fluid off and return to the Portakabin to prepare the figures the accountant asked for.

"I was beginning to think you'd got lost. Three quotes need doing. They're on your desk. Oh, and there are tons of social media comments that haven't been answered. I pay you to do marketing. Do your job," Nigel says.

I would if he didn't expect me to do everyone else's.

The phone on his desk rings.

He stares at it and then at me. "Aren't you going to get that? What do I look like? A receptionist?"

I'm not the receptionist either. The last one quit after three days, and I don't blame her.

I answer the phone in my polite, not-even-remotely-pissed-off-honest voice, listen to the client ranting on the other end of the line, and then put them on hold. "It's for you."

"You deal with it."

"They've asked for the manager."

"Tell them the manager is busy. Take a message and tell them someone will get back to them."

He puts his feet on his desk and leans back in his chair, watching me as I take several minutes' worth of abuse from the angry customer. Nothing I say placates them. They want to speak to Nigel, and no one else will do. Ultimately, I tell them he'll ring them back and put the phone down.

Nigel tuts. "You should never hang up on a client, Harris. It's a bad look."

I glare at him. "Call Mrs Stewart from Evergreen Glass when you have a spare minute."

"What was the complaint?"

"Dirty toilets for the third week in a row."

Nigel huffs. "I'm not going to waste my time on that. Call her back and tell her we'll give her a ten percent discount on next month's bill. That'll keep her sweet. Then tell Craig if he doesn't clean the toilets next time, I'll fire him. The accountant called again. She's annoyed that no one's sent her the figures yet."

I inhale and count to ten before forcing myself to smile and turn my back on my brother.

"Oh, and a prospective customer is coming at seven this evening. I told them you'd be here to talk to them and give them a quote," Nigel says.

I lean on my desk, my back still to him. "I only work until five."

Nigel laughs. "Given how behind you are, I figured you'd easily be here until seven. Don't forget to lock up and set the alarm when you're done."

I can't fucking take this anymore. When was the last time I got to leave the office at five? Some petty little thing always keeps me here. Even on the weekends, Nigel calls and expects me to drop everything to do something for him. I shouldn't put up with it, but I do. He's family, and he gave me a job when I was down on my luck. And now I'm supposed to be eternally grateful to him. Or something.

"I don't pay you to do nothing," Nigel says snidely.

No. He doesn't. He also doesn't pay me to do the work of three people. He wants me to do my job? Fine, I'll do it.

I sit at my desk, open the company's social media platforms, and reply to the handful of comments on my latest posts. Next, I create a new Instagram post, and then proofread a new advert I've designed for the local newspaper. We run one every week, so I like to change it up so readers are less likely to skim over it. I respond to an email from a bus company I'm in the middle of negotiating an advertising contract with. Nigel doesn't want to pay what they're asking, so I've proposed a longer contract in exchange for a lower price. Once I'm done, I turn my computer off and collect my things.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

"It's three o'clock."

"And I'm owed three weeks' holiday, and there's only a week until the end of the financial year. So I'm taking my holiday as of right now. I'll see you a week on Monday."

Nigel stands, shoving his chair hard against the wall. "Don't you dare walk out, Harris. You've got work to do."

"You're mistaken. I've done my job for the day." It's so fucking hard to keep my voice calm.

"You can't take your holiday with no notice."

"If I don't, I won't get to take it at all."

"How am I going to run this place without you?"

"I don't know, Nigel, but you're the boss. You figure it out."

"You can't leave me in the lurch."

"Bye, Nigel." I reach the door.

"I'll dock you a week's pay."

I hunch my shoulders. Legally, he's not allowed to do that, but what can I do about it? Take my brother to court?

"I helped you when you needed me to."

Here we go again. He's going to hold it over me forever.

"Where would you be if I hadn't created a job for you?"

I clench my teeth. I can't let him get under my skin. I can't let him persuade me to stay. I need a break.

"I saved your arse, Harris. We're too busy for you to take time off now."

According to him, we're always too busy for me to take time off, which is why I've barely taken any time off. I even drag myself in when I'm sick. I don't want to let him down, but I have to put myself first.

I roll my shoulders back and lift my chin. "Bye, Nigel. I'll see you a week on Monday."

I walk out on shaking legs, get to my car, and drive out of the industrial estate without looking back.

* * *

I must have taken a wrong turn. So much for taking time off to relax.

I'm driving to a bed and breakfast on the east coast. It's early spring, which means the weather isn't good enough for people to flock to the beach, so I didn't have any trouble booking somewhere for the week.

Most of my journey was on a dual carriageway, but about an hour ago, I had to leave that behind and drive on narrow country roads instead. I thought I'd been following the right signs, but I haven't seen one for my destination in over half an hour. The roads are getting narrower, the sky is getting darker, my petrol is getting lower, and my phone keeps ringing.

The first time, I stopped in case it was an emergency, but it was Nigel asking me to reconsider taking next week off. A glance at my phone tells me he's calling again. I can't answer while I'm driving, and the farther away I get from home, the less likely I am to give in and turn around.

The phone stops ringing. Thirty seconds later, it pings with a text message. Take the hint, Nigel. I'm on holiday.

I need a petrol station and a road sign. Neither is forthcoming as I twist and turn between endless hills and fields. Where the fuck am I?

I pull into a passing point and check my phone. No signal. Fantastic. I can't ring anyone or use the GPS to figure out where I am. On the bright side, Nigel can't call me either.

I have no choice but to keep going. At least the scenery is beautiful, and the sunset is stunning as it streaks the horizon with pinks, purples, and oranges. It's a breathtaking sight until the sun sinks and only darkness remains. I switch my headlights to full beam, but the road is so twisty it's hard to see far. I slow down, pissing off the car behind me. The driver honks their horn as they whizz past and screech around the next bend.

I clutch the steering wheel and concentrate on staying safe and reaching my destination. The bed and breakfast looked pretty, and I paid extra for a room with a sea view. I'm looking forward to a week of doing nothing. I need this break so badly.

I pass a faded wooden sign right but can't avoid my front tire hitting the mother of all potholes. Bang! The car bucks and lurches. Hiss. A warning light appears on the dashboard. I've run out of fuel. I pull the car into a dirt lay-by to the backing track of the wheel rim thudding on the ground.

I grip the wheel and gently knock my head against it a few times, then sit upright and rub my hands over my face. Don't panic. I check my phone. No reception. I can't call for a tow. I could change the tire, but that won't miraculously fill the tank with petrol.

I exit the car, lock it, and walk a few feet to the faded sign. It's for an outdoor retreat centre, but a newer sign has been attached to the bottom, telling me it's under new ownership and closed for refurbishment. Not to worry; someone might live on site.

The wooden gate onto the property is locked. I climb over it and walk down a long drive, checking my phone every few seconds to see if it's got reception. It would be a nice walk if it wasn't dark and the road wasn't lined with thick trees. Animals scuffle in the undergrowth. An owl hoots to my left. Something tiny screeches farther away. My heart beats a thousand miles per hour as I pick up the pace. It's fine. Axe murderers don't lie in wait on private country roads waiting for people to break down. Sadly, my nerves don't appreciate me telling them that.

I must have been walking for ten minutes. I turn a bend. A double-fronted house greets me. The downstairs lights are on. Someone must be home and awake. Thank fuck. My phone pings with text and voice messages. At least now I can call for help if whoever lives in the house is a serial killer.

I approach the house. I'd got used to the moon and stars, but the house lights are brighter, killing my night vision. No doorbell. I close my hand into a loose fist and rap my knuckles on the door. No answer, yet voices are coming from inside. I press my ear to the door. A pair of tinny voices—one male, one female—are talking about the latest political scandal. News readers? Someone must be home if a TV or radio is on. I knock again, louder than before. I hold my other hand behind my back with my fingers crossed. Please don't let this be a serial killer's house. Please.

The door opens, and a six-foot-three hunk of a man stares at me. The light comes from behind him, casting his face in shadow. The outline of his body is visible, and fuck, is he muscly.

Before I can stop myself, I whistle softly and whisper, "Hello, Daddy."