Chapter 10
Iris
The knocking wouldn't stop.
Each measured rap sent a fresh spike of pain through my skull, dragging me inch by inch out of the fever dreams. I tried to push myself up from the floor where I'd collapsed, but my arms shook so badly I could barely support my weight.
The room tilted sickeningly. I grabbed the edge of my bed frame and hauled myself upright, shuffling toward my closet. The knocking paused, then resumed with the same patient rhythm.
I yanked a hoodie off its hanger, nearly falling over. The oversized sleeves hung past my hands, at least hiding how wrecked I looked.
The bathroom mirror confirmed it—I looked like death. My skin had that translucent quality that came with serious illness, so pale the veins showed blue underneath. My eyes were bloodshot, hair stuck to my forehead in sweaty clumps.
I fumbled for the medicine cabinet, shaking out two fever reducers. They rattled in my trembling hand before I managed to swallow them dry, the pills scraping down my raw throat.
The knocking came again.
I gripped the doorframe and forced myself toward the living room. My vision kept blurring at the edges.
The living room hit me like a physical blow.
Brycen had slid off the couch, his upper body sprawled on the floor. The coffee table was a disaster zone—grease-stained takeout containers, empty beer cans, lottery tickets littered everywhere. Flies circled lazily, landing on congealed food.
The smell made my stomach lurch. I pressed my hand over my mouth, breathing shallowly as I picked my way around the mess.
This was my life now.
I made my way to the door.
The man on my doorstep was in his mid-thirties, with neatly trimmed dark brown hair and gray eyes behind black-framed glasses. He wore a formal dark suit despite the heat, briefcase in hand.
"Good morning. I'm Steven Martinez, a social worker with Arkansas Child Welfare Services. Is this the residence of Diana Fletcher?"
I nodded, gripping the doorframe.
"Are you Iris Morgan?"
"Yes." The word came out as a rasp. "My mom's not here right now."
Steven's expression shifted. "May I speak with you for a moment? It's regarding your recent move from Oregon."
"What kind of matters?"
Steven glanced past me at Brycen's unconscious form. Something in his expression hardened. "Perhaps we could step outside?"
I nodded and stepped onto the porch. The fresh air helped. I leaned against the railing.
Steven opened his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. "Miss Morgan, are you aware that your biological father, Caspian Morgan, has been sending monthly support payments since your birth?"
The world tilted sideways.
"What?" I gripped the railing harder. "What support payments?"
"You don't know about them?"
I shook my head. "I've never heard anything about my father sending money."
Steven's jaw tightened. "According to our records, checks have been sent monthly for seventeen years. Initially signed for by Margaret Morgan—your grandmother?"
"She told me it was her pension," I whispered.
"Your grandmother passed away two years ago, correct?"
"Yes."
"After her death, the checks were signed for by Diana Fletcher." Steven looked up. "If you've been unaware of these payments, where has the money been going?"
"I don't know," I said, my voice hollow. "I've been working since I was fifteen. Part-time jobs, tutoring, anything I could manage. I pay for everything myself. Diana said if I wanted anything, I needed to earn it."
Steven pulled out his phone, stepping away. His tone had gone hard, clipped.
When he came back, anger simmered underneath his professional mask. "If what you're telling me is true—that constitutes financial exploitation of a minor. I'll be filing a report immediately, and Mr. Morgan will be notified."
The porch seemed to tilt. "My father. You said his name is Caspian Morgan?"
"Yes." Steven pulled a business card from his wallet, pressing it into my hand. "If you're in an unsafe situation, there are resources available. My number is on this card. If you need help—any kind of help—you call me. Day or night."
I stared at the card, the letters blurring.
"I'll be in contact with Mr. Morgan, and I'll be scheduling another visit to speak with Ms. Fletcher directly. If anything happens, you call me immediately. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
Steven walked back to his car. I watched him drive away, still gripping his business card.
I stayed on the porch, Steven's card clutched in my hand.
Monthly support payments since birth. All those years of scraping by, of me taking every job I could find. And the whole time, my father had been sending money.
Money that Diana had been pocketing while telling me to work harder, to be grateful she even let me live here.
The rage hit me so suddenly I had to grab the railing. It burned through the fever, white-hot and blinding.
My phone buzzed.
Mrs. Patterson: Iris, I got your message. I'm so sorry you're not feeling well. Is there anything you need?
Me: Thank you, Mrs. Patterson. I just need to rest.
Another buzz from Harper.
Harper: Just heard you're sick! I told the convenience store manager you needed the day off. Do you need anything?
Me: I'm okay. Thanks for covering for me.
Harper: Anytime. Oh, and those Thornwood twins have been asking around about you all day. What's going on with you three?
I stared at that last message. Chase and Jaxon were looking for me?
Me: Nothing's going on. I'll explain later.
Harper: You better. Text me if you need ANYTHING.
I slid the phone back and pushed off the railing. Inside, Brycen had returned to the couch, another beer in hand.
I looked at him and felt nothing but contempt.
"I'm going back to bed."
My bedroom felt like a sanctuary. I shut the door, Steven's business card still in my hand.
You call me. Day or night.
I set the card on my nightstand, then collapsed onto my bed.
Monthly support payments since birth.
Seventeen years of money that should have helped me. Seventeen years of Diana taking what wasn't hers.
She'd been lying the whole time. She didn't have the ability to support this household through prostitution—that was just a disgusting excuse to cover up the fact that she'd been stealing the money to climb into high society.
Caspian Morgan. My father. A man who'd sent money every month for seventeen years but had never once tried to see me.
What did that mean?
The questions chased each other until my head hurt too much to think. I curled onto my side, pulling the damp sheets up.
Sleep dragged me under. I dreamed of a faceless man writing checks at a desk, his features always turned away. I kept trying to call out to him, but my voice wouldn't work.
The sharp click of heels on hardwood jerked me awake.
Each step hit the floor with barely controlled violence, the rhythm too quick, too aggressive.
This was fury in motion.
I pushed myself up just as my bedroom door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall.
Diana stood in the doorway. Her manicured hand gripped her phone so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths, and her eyes had gone absolutely glacial.
"A social worker came here?" Her voice came out sharp and high. "Some man named Steven came to this house and spoke to you?"
I stared at her, my fever-fogged brain struggling to process the sudden shift.
"Answer me, Iris!" The words cracked like a whip. "What did he say to you? What did you tell him?"
