Book One In the Lockwood Next Generation Series.
My name is Gracie Matthews and before I could tie my own shoelaces or even ride a bike, I knew I was in love with Wyatt Carter.
I thought he felt the same way.
Turned out I was wrong.
Well, Wyatt, f...
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Aged 13
The headphones were clamped tight over my ears, but I could still hear my parents arguing with the shrill voice of my mom cutting through the music, sharp and tense, the way it had been for months now.
I cranked up the volume, but it was no use.
Next to me, Sam, my younger brother and like me, was wearing his headphones, but he wasn't listening to music, no, he was absorbed in his Kindle, eyes glued to the screen as he read. He was always reading—like it was an escape.
I wished I could find mine sometimes. Not that I hated my parents or anything like that; no, they were just going through a rough patch, or so my dad said. He had been hoping the move here to Lockwood would have made things better, but as of yet, no such luck.
With a grumble, my attention fixed on the outside scenery.
Then it happened—all at once. The blare of a horn, a scramble up front, and the world spun into chaos.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just darkness. Silence.
I don't know how long I was out, but when I came to, I wasn't wearing my headphones, and it was to the sound of my father's voice, faint and scared. "Wyatt, look after your brother... I'm sorry, son."
Blinking, I swallowed. Blood dripped onto my hand, and I stared at it, numb. For a long moment, that was all I allowed myself to notice. Not the whizzing going through my ears or the flurry of movement outside the wreck. I blocked it all out.
But it couldn't be kept at bay forever. Reality slammed into me.
I wished it hadn't.
Because it wasn't my blood.
I twisted, my gaze landing on Sam, slumped beside me in the back seat. His head hung forward, chin to chest. Instinct screamed at me not to look up front—not to ever look there again, even though I couldn't quite remember why.
No. I knew why.
Deep down, I knew.
But I couldn't face it. If I didn't look, it wasn't real.
"Sam," I croaked. Blood stained my hand and arm, but it wasn't mine—it was his. A gash ran the length of his face, and my stomach turned at the sight of the open wound and his lifeless body.
The arm I'd thrown across his chest at the moment of impact trembled. I forced myself to move it, fumbling for the release on my seatbelt.
"Sam," I tried again, my voice stronger, more desperate. "Sam, wake up."
Look after your brother, my dad had said, or had he?
