Tim's mother is too young to die, but she dies anyway--in a video that goes viral. Tim scrambles to hold his life together, but the person who keeps him on his feet turns out to be his half-sister, a fiesty girl who has no idea they're related, but...
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A plan takes seed somewhere between a sleepless night and desperation for something to do. The thing about Vivian is she has an upper-hand. Not only is she smarter than me, anyone in Murphy can tell her about me. Murphy is too small. Everyone knows everything, especially when everything was broadcast across TV and Facebook.
The thing about Vivian is I don't know anything about her. But that can change.
I knock on Chaos' door and I've barely put my knuckles to the fading paint job when Hank Osmond swings it wide open. I don't want to say Chaos' father intimidates me, but he towers over me like some kind of underground street fighter. He scratches the blonde stubble on his dark, tanned cheeks.
"Ken!" Hank calls before I even say anything.
Okay, Hank Osmond intimidates me a little. I think you'd need to be if Chaos was your kid. I imagine Chaos back in BC proposing a spirited made-up game involving balls far too close to glass. If the silhouette of his father didn't put the fear of God in his earlier friends, there would be too many broken windows and dented cars to count.
It takes half a second for the steam engine that is Chaos to barrel down the hall, a response to his name that only his father could inspire. Ken was what Hank chose for his son and no stubbornness or distaste would convince him to use anything but K's real name.
"What's up, man?" Chaos pulls me in by my hoodie, giving the front door a good shove closed. "What brings you to el Casa Osmond?"
El Casa Osmond is quaint. They aren't big believers in family pictures, the only exception the picture of a young Chaos and his mother, clearly where he got all his genetics. The living room turned into the dining room with fold-out TV tables in front of the arm chairs in a very accurate picture of a home shared by a man and his half-crazed son.
"Come into my office." Chaos ushers, strutting to his bedroom. I mean, I assume it's still his bedroom, assuming there is still a bed beneath the pile of laundry accumulating on the end of it. That's the clean stuff he's neglected to fold. The dirty pile attempts to take up only the far corner to one side of his closet but fails wretchedly.
