Missy Sheldrake
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To break free from the grip of the Lake Lady and reclaim control of her own life.
She doesn’t know who she once was. Her name has been lost to time, devoured by the need for vengeance. She knows humans are thieving, wicked, greedy tricksters. She has learned over decades how their fear and negativity feed her power.
Her world was once filled with color and merriment, but those memories have long faded to murk and milfoil. Now she is bound to the depths of a man-made lake where she plots vengeance for wrongs long forgotten.
The girl was a special opportunity for her. A trade. A name for a wish. Easy enough. She invested all her energy into the bargain, certain it would one day pay off. She stole the girl’s young cousin to fuel panic, mystery, and strife. Some years later, she plucked away the girl’s parents. She debilitated the girl, who calls herself Ophelia now, with crippling torment at every opportunity. Her allies, dark creatures of the lake, see her rising power and rally to her aid. 15 years into the bargain, she obsesses over Ophelia constantly from the lake shore, drinking her fear and misery, fueling her confusion and fame, and growing into a force no human will ever dare trifle with again.
Candlewood Cray
Drowned Wishes
- Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why?
How does one cope with the crippling self-doubt and impostor syndrome that stems from this assignment? Asking for a friend. (Stuck a pin in this one for now.) (Leaving this comment here because this is the assignment I struggled with the most.)
1. Holly Black The Folk of the Air series: A mortal girl finds herself caught in a web of royal faerie intrigue.
Real world/fantasy world crossover, fairies, a mortal girl caught in a web of magic, modern setting
2. Alice Feeney Sometimes I Lie: My name is Amber Reynolds. There are three things you should know about me: 1. I’m in a coma. 2. My husband doesn’t love me anymore. 3. Sometimes I lie.
Unreliable narrator, thriller, first person, casual, conversational prose.
FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication.
Paralyzed by fear and trapped by greed, superstar artist Ophelia Kellan must wade through what is real and what is psychotic to overcome an innocent childhood wish granted by a sinister figure lurking in Candlewood lake.
SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction.
Why does Ophelia feel in turmoil? Nobody believes her. They pump her with anti-psychosis drugs and force her into therapy and manage every aspect of her life for her. They install cameras all over her cabin to show her that the sounds she hears aren’t there and the creatures she sees aren’t real.
Ophelia is sure the Lake Lady exists, though. She spoke to her when she made that wish at age six, the same moment her cousin Anna vanished from the shore of Candlewood lake right in front of her entire family. She sees her watching from the shore every day and every night, even though no one else does. She knows the creatures that plague her, the eyes in the trees that watch her, the fear that encompasses her daily is all orchestrated by the one entity who gave her what she thought she wanted.
Ophelia blames herself for her turmoil. She knows her cousin’s disappearance was her own fault. She knows the terrible boating accident that lost her parents to the lake was part of her payment for all she’s been given. She knows she made a stupid bargain, and that the Lake Lady took advantage of her naivety as a child, but now she’s too deep into it. She has lost too much that she can never regain, and it’s all her own fault. And if everyone thinks all of this is just in her head, how will she ever overcome it?
Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it?
Ophelia’s secondary conflict focuses on her brother. Ben was there, too, when Anna disappeared. As the older sibling/cousin, he was supposed to be watching them by the water. Now, all grown up and orphaned, Ben has taken control of all aspects of Ophelia’s fame. After their parents died in the boating accident, he assumed responsibility for all aspects of his sister’s business. He had already been working with their dad in that capacity before he was lost to the lake, so stepping into that role was relatively seamless.
Ben’s relationship with Ophelia (Fee) is severely strained. He resents all the attention she got after Anna’s disappearance. After her therapy painting of the Lake Lady went viral and sold for millions when she was 10, Ben was sent away to a prestigious boarding school so the family could focus on Fee’s therapy and the effects of sudden fame.
After the boating accident that took their parents, 16-year-old Fee went on a drug-fueled rebellious rampage of partying and self-destructive behavior which forced Ben to enter her into a conservatorship and take firm control of every aspect of her life.
Now he’s 29 and she’s 23, and he’s sick of her paranoia and psychosis. She lives on their family’s lakefront property where there’s a decadent mansion. She could afford to have private chefs, a butler, people waiting on her hand and foot…but she chooses to seclude herself in their grandparents’ old run-down cabin instead, surrounded by security guards and cameras, sleeping all day while he wheels and deals in New York, working his ass off to make sure she stays relevant.
How hard is it to just paint? All she needs to do is paint, and she can’t even do that without problems.
Scenario (not really hypothetical. This is chapter one of the book)
It’s 2PM on a Tuesday and Fee is in the kitchen cooking oatmeal. In the next room, she hears strange noises. She’s heard these noises before and she knows exactly what they are. Terrified, she turns off the stovetop burner and pulls out her phone to text Ben, who is currently working in New York.
Ben, they’re here, she tells him. He replies asking her if she’s painting. They’re here, she insists, which is so weird because they never come during the day!
He tells her he doesn’t have time for this and asks her if she’s taken her meds for the day. Ophelia goes off on him, furious he won’t believe her. All the while, the disgusting sloshing noises slurp across the sitting room floor one room over.
She slips into her studio, protected by the lines of salt she laid out carefully earlier. Her studio is a place of solace, filled with wards mostly aimed toward faeries: Iron horseshoes, rowan berries, etc.
The front door opens and Cate, her favorite security guard comes in. Cate walks through the sitting room to the kitchen and Fee is relieved when nothing happens. Cate only remarks that the floor is wet. Fee returns to the kitchen to greet Cate, who has taken Fee’s meds box out of the cupboard. She shows Fee the little box for Tuesday, which still has pills in it. Fee curses Ben for being right about the meds.
FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it.
Fee’s whole world is her cabin.
My setting is broadly Candlewood Lake. It’s the largest lake in Connecticut, and is man-made. The lake spans several towns and counties in the western part of the state, and is just an hour and a half from New York City which makes it prime real estate for NYC weekenders.
Ophelia’s grandparents owned a little cabin on a broad swath of land on the lake, which was a summer gathering place for siblings and cousins of her family for generations. When Fee rose to fame, her parents bought the land and built an enormous, ostentatious modern mansion on the property which they called the lake house. They kept the cabin, intending for the grandparents to live there with them. But the grandparents died before they could move in, so they converted it to a "sleepover studio" for Fee.
After the boating accident that took her parents and the drama that followed, Fee couldn’t bear to live in the big house alone. She moved everything to the cabin, and she lives there now while the lake house stands empty unless Ben pops over from the city to entertain there.
Fee’s little cabin consists of a bedroom and bathroom in the loft upstairs, a sitting room and a galley kitchen downstairs, and her painting studio attached to the kitchen.
The property is in a private gated community, and also includes a personal gate house and accommodations for her 24/7 security team (4-5 guards during any rotation).
The lake is an entity in itself. In 1926, through an incredible feat of engineering that was world-renowned at the time, the Connecticut Light and Power company imposed imminent domain on hundreds of acres of land in order to flood it to create electrical turbines. Generational properties were bought up, manor houses and estates were burned to the ground, farmland was decimated, and more than 400 graves were interred and moved to new cemeteries in surrounding towns to make way for the lake. Property owners who refused to sell were able to keep the rights to their land, but of course the land was still flooded in order to create the lake.
Of course a lake with such a strange, rich history would be the source of countless urban legends and creepy tales. As a child, my family boated there several times a week. We would anchor out in the deep water and I’d swim off the boat with my sister. In the water, I'd remember tales my great-grandma spun about how there are churches and houses beneath me, and I’d imagine cold, dead hands reaching up through fields of milfoil to pull me under.
The history of the lake and my memories there are rich fodder for storytelling. In Fee’s story, all her turmoil comes from the lake. The Lake Lady watches her constantly from the shore. At night, orbs of light drift across the surface of the water, lost souls searching for their own remains. Anna disappeared into it. Her parents sunk into it after the boat incident and were never recovered. Her crush spends his days on the lake, giving canoe tours and paddleboard lessons. The first plot point puts her into crisis when her brother’s dinner party guests insist she join them on a moonlit cruise in their fancy yacht. The lake taunts her at every turn. Worst of all, when she ventures too far from it, Fee suffers debilitating migraines, nosebleeds, and unconquerable feelings of uselessness.
Midway through the book, Fee has a dream about the lake in which she sinks into it and discovers a faerie world beneath it. Her cousin Anna is there, married to a faerie king. Anna tells Fee how the Lake Lady has grown in power, threatening their world, and the only way for Fee to stop her is to discover her name and take her power from her. Oh, and also, she has her parents captive.
Of course when Fee wakes up she convinces herself a dream is a dream. But she starts to have second thoughts when her crush, Emerson, (who had vanished in the lake on the same night as the moonlit cruise that never happened, and who was also there in the dream) reemerges from the lake and tells her “they sent him back”.
Algonkian Pre-event Narrative Enhancement Guide - Opening Hook
in Algonkian Writer Conferences - Events, FAQ, Contracts
Posted
Candlewood Cray (First Draft)
OPENING SCENE: Introduces Protagonist, introduces secondary characters, hints at main antagonist, introduces setting, tone, hints at core wound, hints at primary goal, introduces protagonist conflict
It’s broad daylight. Two twenty-two Tuesday afternoon. They never come while the sun is up. This should not be happening. Silently, slowly, I twist the burner knob to ‘off’ and back barefoot across the galley kitchen until my shoulders press into the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator door.
The oatmeal in the pot bubbles sloppily, mocking me with two quick gasps of hot steam. Creamy blotches splatter the ceramic cook top; a mar of white on the otherwise gleaming, perfect black surface.
I ball my hands into fists, fighting the urge to wipe them away. If I’m not still, if I’m not silent, they will find me. Not daring to breathe, I inch a hand to my pocket and pull out my phone, always set to silent. My trembling fingers fumble to unlock it, to open the texting app, to tap my brother’s name right at the top.
“Ben,” I type, my gaze locked desperately on the screen. Three gray dots appear, then vanish, then appear again.
I wait, staring, refusing to look toward the window or the doorways. If I look, they’ll feel my fear. They’ll track me down.
The three dots blink away, and I wait for the incoming message that doesn’t come.
A clatter behind me makes me yelp and nearly drop my phone as I clap a hand over my mouth. The ice maker. I curse in my head. In the next room, something soggy skitters across the hardwood. It heard me. It’s closing in.
“Ben, please...” I type with icy, trembling thumbs as I slide silently from the fridge along the countertop toward the pocket door to my studio. I left it open just in case. I always do.
“...”
“Fee, are you painting? Send me a pic.” Ben’s reply floods me with relief.
“Just making breakfast,” I type with my back pressed against the door frame. “They’re here.”
“...”
“ ”
“...”
“Breakfast at two in the afternoon?” he asks after several starts and stops.
I nod, breathing shallowly, and realize after a minute he can’t see me.
“Yes. They’re in the front room. Two of them, I think.”
“Go to the cupboard. Check your meds box. It’s Tues, Ophelia. Check to make sure Tues is empty.”
My mouth goes dry. My heart thumps with fury. My stomach flips angrily.
“I know it’s fucking Tuesday, Ben.” I type. “You don’t believe me? After everything? After last week?”
“...”
“...”
“Fee. Please. Just check.”
“Forget it. Sorry I bothered you.”
Hope I’m not ripped to shreds by the time you get home, I want to type, or dragged under the lake like they were. But I don’t. I just shove my phone back into my pocket angrily and draw a deep, silent breath. Beyond the kitchen in the front room, something squelches.
I back through the pocket door, sliding it shut without a sound.
They started up again a few months ago, when things finally seemed to be getting back to normal. Back when I felt like I maybe I wasn’t psycho after all, like maybe everything was going to be okay.
When they slipped past my bedroom window, blotting strange shadows across my blinds, Ben installed in a motion sensor floodlight and two new security cameras with night vision right outside.
Of course nothing showed up on the cameras.
When I was positive something was creaking around in the hallway outside my bedroom leaving puddles and murky streaks, Ben accused me of swimming without a towel, ruining the antique wood finish with water spots.
Like I would ever, ever swim in Candlewood lake again.
My own brother should know me better than that.
To protect myself, I took matters into my own hands and put an iron padlock on my bedroom door, and salted the sills and across all the thresholds.
My hand slips into the pocket of my paint-crusted cutoffs and finds the familiar old iron railway nail. I grip the round, rough length of it like my life depends on it. Because it does.
Iron
Oats
Bread and honey offerings
Bells
Red berries
I slip along the mental checklist deftly, my gaze flicking around my studio. Each item I see brings me comfort. The iron horseshoes hung sideways like crescent moons over both door frames. The bells dangling above my perfectly lined-up paint tubes. The vases filled with clusters of Rowan berries that line the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows. The bowl of bread steeped in amber honey on the stone outside the sliding glass door.
I avert my eyes from the windows. I know what’s beyond: the sprawling lawn, the dock where Dad’s surviving Chris-Craft is tucked in tight, the sparkling green lake probably dappled with fishing boats and streaked with water skiers. And her. I don’t need to look to know she’s there.
She’s always there.
I pad through the sunroom my parents converted into a painting studio for me when I was a bright-eyed child prodigy to the second closed door that leads into the den. The salt and iron filings poured along the threshold crunch beneath my toes as I press my ear to the smooth, painted wood.
Squelch.
Hiss.
Creak.
My heart thunders, rushing blood to my ears. How can my stomach feel so empty and also filled with stone at the same time?
Go away, I want to scream, but I don’t dare. I don’t make a sound. I barely breathe. They’re moving away. Back toward the breezeway door. Leaving. They’re leaving.
Distantly, the keypad lock on the front door beeps.
I nearly jump out of my skin and yank my phone from my pocket as the doorbell notification simultaneously buzzes. More notifications scroll past: seventeen new text messages, four missed calls. Most are from Ben, but there are a couple from the gatehouse. Perfect. Ben called security, brushing me off as always. A token effort to avoid the two hour drive back from New York City. God forbid he comes home for once.
“Fee?” Cate, my favorite of our private security rotation, calls from the mud room.
I stare at the screen full of Ben’s texts. He’s not panicked about whether I’m safe. He’s worried about something else:
“The dinner party at the house is Friday, Fee. That’s three days from now. Are you going to have anything new done? Should I be concerned? I can postpone it, but you need to tell me now. Impressive guest list expecting to meet you. A few familiar faces, a couple A-list celebs, too. We can’t screw this up. Could be a serious game-changer.”
“Should you be concerned? Really?” I type, but I shove my phone back into my pocket without sending it. Let him stare at ellipses for awhile. Jerk.
“What the hell? What are all these puddles? Ophelia?” Cate calls louder.
Reluctantly, I slide open the door a crack to peer into the entry, careful not to disturb the salt or iron.
“I’m here,” I answer, surprised by the grittiness of my voice. I try to remember the last time I used it. The last time I talked to anyone aloud and not on some screen. Yesterday morning, maybe, when the cleaners came through.
Cate takes the route all the way through the other side of the cottage to the kitchen, avoiding the studio altogether. Everyone around here treats it like some kind of hallowed ground, not even daring to glance in its direction without my invitation.
I remember why, and of course I’m ashamed of it.
Still shaken, I slink toward the kitchen and find Cate at the cupboard. When she turns to find me in the doorway, she drops her hand from the holster strapped over her jeans.
“Fee,” she ventures cautiously. “Are you all right? Ben called and said you heard something, but there was nothing on the feeds.”
“Sure,” I lie. Of course there was nothing on the feeds. Should I be surprised? Will any of them ever believe I’m not fucking crazy? My gaze trails to the labeled pill box she's holding, and shame makes something snap in me.
I snatch the box from her and she throws her hands up in surrender. Like I’m some wild animal who might lunge and rip her apart. I try to ignore her reaction as I flip the TUES cap open to reveal the four pills I should have taken hours ago. Cate shifts uncomfortably, dropping her hands.
“Son of a…” I curse under my breath.
Ben was right. He’s always fucking right.
EDIT: I hope this is okay. After reading the development guide, I decided to rewrite this opening scene in 3POV and thought I'd share it here for review/comparison.
Chapter One - 3POV-FC Past tense
It was broad daylight. Two twenty-two Tuesday afternoon. They never came while the sun was up. This was impossible. Silently, slowly, Ophelia twisted the burner knob to ‘off’ and backed barefoot across the galley kitchen until her shoulders pressed into the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator door.
The oatmeal in the pot bubbled sloppily, mocking her with two quick gasps of hot steam. Creamy blotches splattered the ceramic cooktop, a mar of white across the otherwise gleaming black surface.
With her hands balled into fists, she fought the overwhelming urge to grab a towel and wipe the mess away. If she wasn’t still, if she wasn’t completely silent, the creatures would find her. Not daring to breathe, she inched a hand to her pocket and pulled out her phone, which was always set to silent. Her paint-stained fingers fumbled to unlock it, to open the texting app, to tap her brother’s name right at the top of the screen.
“Ben,” she typed, her gaze locked desperately on the screen. Three gray dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again.
She waited, staring, refusing to look toward any windows or doorways of the quaint cabin’s kitchen. If she looked, she knew they’d feel her fear. They’d hunt her down. She was no stranger to these creatures or their workings.
The three dots blinked away, and the incoming message hung between her and her brother unsent.
A clatter behind her startled her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to keep herself from yelping, nearly dropping her phone. Fuck. In the next room, something skittered across the hardwood. It heard her. It was closing in.
“Ben, please…” she typed with icy, trembling thumbs as she slid silently from the fridge toward the pocket door of her studio. She left it open just in case. She always did.
“Fee, are you painting? Send me a pic.” Ben’s reply flooded her with relief as the phone’s blue glow danced across her pale cheeks and flashed in her tired eyes.
“Just making breakfast,” she typed with her back pressed against the worn antique wood door frame. “They’re here.”
“…”
“…”
“Breakfast at two in the afternoon?” Ben asked after several starts and stops. Ophelia could feel the impatience emanating from his words, but her fear was too insistent. She nodded, breathing shallowly, and realized after a minute he couldn’t see her.
“Yes,” she typed, “they’re in the front room. Two of them, I think.”
“Go to the cupboard. Check your meds box. It’s Tuesday, Ophelia. Check and make sure Tues is empty.”
Ophelia’s mouth went dry, her heart thumped with fury. Her stomach flipped angrily. It was just like Ben to do this.
“I know it’s fucking Tuesday, Ben,” she smashed each letter into the phone with urgent thumbs. “You don’t believe me? After everything? After last week?”
“…”
“…”
“Fee. Please. Just check.”
“Forget it. Sorry I bothered you.”
Hope I’m not ripped to shreds by the time you get home, she wanted to type, or dragged under the lake like they were. But she held back, like she almost always did.
Angrily, she shoved her phone back into her pocket and drew a deep, silent breath. Beyond the kitchen in the front room, something squelched.
They started up again a few months ago, when things finally seemed to be getting back to normal. Back when she felt like maybe she wasn’t psycho after all. Like maybe everything could actually, eventually be normal. Or as normal as possible for someone in her situation, anyway.
When they slipped past her bedroom window, blotting strange shadows across her blinds, Ben installed motion sensor floodlights and new security cameras all around the outside of the cabin.
Of course nothing showed up on the cameras.
When she was positive something was creaking around in the hallway outside her bedroom leaving murky streaks, Ben accused her of swimming with a towel, ruining the antique wood finish with water spots.
Like she would ever, ever be dumb enough to swim in Candlewood Lake again. Her own brother should know her better than that.
To protect herself, she took matters into her own hands and put an iron padlock on her bedroom door, and salted across all the window sills and thresholds.
Standing in her studio with her back to the kitchen, Ophelia slipped her hand into her paint-crusted cutoff overalls and found the familiar old railway nail. She gripped the round, rough length of it like her lift depended on it. Because it did.
Iron
Oats
Bread and honey offerings
Bells
Rowan berries
She ran through the mental checklist deftly, her nervous gaze flicking around her studio, confirming her protections were in place. The iron horseshoes hung sideways like crescent moons over both door frames. Bells dangled above paint tubes lined up like soldiers along her taboret. Sentinels of vases filled with clusters of rowan berries lined the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows. A bowl of bread steeped in amber honey on the stone outside the door made a masterful distraction for any errant mischief-maker.
With an instinctive sense of self-preservation, she averted her eyes from the windows. She already knew what was beyond: the sprawling lawn, the dock where her father’s only surviving Chris-Craft was tucked in tight, the sparkling green lake probably dappled with fishing boats and streaked with water skiers.
And her.
Ophelia didn’t need to look to know. She was always watching.
Fee padded through the sunroom her parents converted into a painting studio for her when she was a bright-eyed child prodigy to the second pocket door that led into the the den. Her toes crunched into a mound of salt and iron filings as she pressed her ear to the smooth, painted wood.
Squelch.
Hiss
Creak.
Her heart thundered, pumping her racing pulse into her ears. Her heavy, empty stomach growled and lurched like a rock tumbler.
Go away, she wanted to scream, but she’d never dare. She didn’t think she could make a sound even if she was able to muster the courage. She could barely breathe.
But wait. They were moving away. Back toward the breezeway door. Leaving. They were leaving.
She nearly jumped out of her skin and yanked her phone from her pocket as the doorbell notification for the cabin’s front door buzzed. Distantly, the keypad lock on the front door beeped at the same time.
“Fee?” Cate, her favorite of the private security team that monitored the property, called from the mudroom door.
Her phone buzzed again, and more notifications flooded through: seventeen new text messages, four missed calls. Most were from Ben, but there were a couple from the gatehouse. Perfect. Ben called security, brushing her off as always. A token effort to avoid the two-hour drive from New York. God forbid he came home for once.
Ophelia stared at the screen full of Ben’s texts, appalled. He wasn’t panicked about whether she was safe. He had no concern for what creatures might be invading. He was worried about something else entirely.
“The dinner party at the house is Friday, Fee. That’s three days from now. Are you going to have anything new done? Should I be concerned? I can postpone it, but you need to tell me now. Impressive guest list expecting to meet you. A few familiar faces, a couple of A-list celebs, too. This is your chance to prove you’ve got it together. Could be a serious game-changer.”
Prove I’ve got it together? Ophelia fumed in silence. Or what? An extension on the conservatorship? Off to rehab again? Or worse, the the ward?
“Fuck you and your threats, Ben. I’m over here getting attacked by who knows what and you’re worried I’m not going to behave at your pony party? Should you be concerned? Fucking really?” She typed, but shoved her phone into her pocket angrily without sending it. Let him stare at ellipses for a while. Jerk.
“What the hell? What are all these puddles? Ophelia?” Cate calls louder.
Reluctantly, Fee slid open the door a crack to peer out into the entry, careful not to disturb her salt lines. “I’m here.”
She was surprised by the grittiness of her voice, and tried hard to remember the last time she had spoken aloud to anyone. It was yesterday, she thought, when the cleaners came through.
Cate took the route all the way through the other side of the cabin to the kitchen, avoiding the studio altogether. It annoyed Ophelia how everyone treated it like some kind of hallowed ground, not even daring to glance in its direction without her permission.
She remembered why, and of course she was ashamed of it.
Still shaken, she slunk toward the kitchen and found Cate standing at the cupboard, a thin slice of sunshine dancing through the blinds into her white-blond pixie cut.
For a moment, Ophelia felt a rush of inspiration to paint the petite but powerful woman standing at the counter. Something about Cate’s dichotomy of soft and hard spoke to her: the tactical belt and gun strapped to the curve of her hip, the bold black lines of her tattoos across her strong, delicate wrist.
“Fee,” Cate ventured cautiously, “are you all right? Ben called and said you heard something, but there was nothing on the feeds.”
Sure,” Ophelia lied. Of course there was nothing caught on the cameras. There never was. Her gaze drifted from Cate’s wrist to her hand, and for the first time she realized what Cate was up to.
Her pill box. Ophelia lunged at the guard and snatched it away, and Cate threw her hands up in immediate surrender. Like Fee was some wild animal who might claw and rip her apart. She tried to ignore Cate’s reaction as she flipped open the TUES cap to reveal the four pills she should have taken hours ago.
A few paces away, Cate shifted uncomfortably, dropping her hands to her sides.
“Son of a bitch,” Fee cursed under her breath.
Ben was right. He was always fucking right.