His Queen of Chaos
My own name, forged in my father's hand, made an executor I'd never agreed to be, given the keys to something dangerous years before I'd known the danger existed.
My throat closed on a grief so old it almost felt like home. Of course he'd forged it. My whole childhood was a museum of small forgeries, permission slips he'd signed as my mother after Tasha left, a faked doctor's note so we could skip a Tuesday at the aquarium. He'd forged my mother's name to keep me, and then, years later, forged my own name to burden me, to make me, without asking, the safe pair of hands.
"You, okay?" Malik asked, low, at my shoulder. First unguarded thing he'd said to me in four days that wasn't about traffic