Page 9 of Please Open Me
Documented history of emotional trauma or dependency
Well. That fit Mason down to the letter. Which was...concerning.
But then I hit the bottom of the profile.
30 weeks pregnant with the prophet’s child at the time of death.
My head tilted slightly as I reread the line.
That didn’t fit Mason. Not right now, at least.
Obviously, she wasn’t getting pregnant anytime soon. She was on birth control, and shejusthad Rosie. Heck, our sweet girl wasn’t even crawling yet. Masie’s body still needed to recover before she could eventhinkabout having another baby.
Plus, the boys were careful with her. Obsessively so. Sebastian, especially. Condoms. Pull-out. The whole nine yards. And if hewantedto kill her... wouldn’t he be trying to get her pregnant?
Something about this wasn’t adding up... and maybe that could be my angle. Sebastian wasn’t acting like a crazy cult member, so he couldn’tbea crazy cult member.
And as long as Mason didn’t get pregnant, everything would be fine.
Chapter 4
Lucian
Living in a house full of perfect people was fuckingexhausting.
Cameron was the perfect dad: patient, understanding, and always on top of everything. Sophia had an important job and never had a single hair out of place. Sebastian was the family’s golden boy, and even my boyfriend liked my brother more than he liked me.
And Mason… Mason Albright was a saint. No, like a literal fucking saint.
Our house couldn’t function without her. She kept the kids fed. Keptmefrom falling apart, and never made it feel like she was babysitting me. She took in Jasper and Juniper like they were hers, and they adored her. She handled my bad days with a tired smile and zero judgment—like she wasn’t being crushed under the weight of her own shit, too. And if that wasn’t enough, she somehow juggled her music careerandmine without missing a beat.
She’d disappear to California for two days, come back with a flash drive full of new vocals, instructions from our managers, and some random story about being offered a private jet ride by a country artist she couldn’t legally name.
And me?
I was here.
In the bathroom.
Being the fuck-upeveryoneknew I was.
My hands pressed against the white counter as I forced my reflection to hold my gaze. A dull ashen tone stole the golden highlights from my skin, and sweat glistened on my forehead. I swallowed hard, fighting off the nausea curled deep in my stomach.
Eight months. That’s how long, approximately, it had been since I took that bag of pills from Sera. In that time, I survived Mason’s hospital ordeal, a new baby, and every other change life threw at me. But more than that—no one had noticed I’d relapsed, and in my head, that meant I had everything under control.
Sober me couldn’t keep up with the saints and superheroes, but high me could. When I was high, I wasn’t nervous, self-conscious, or overbearing.
I was fucking invincible.
And that little boost in morale? That was what kept me on the same level as everyone else in this house. Which meant there was no way I could get sober—not without disappointing everyone.
Standing on my tiptoes, I patted around above the mirror. There was a small gap between the top of the medicine cabinet and the molding above—too small for normal storage, but it made an excellent hiding place.
