CHAPTER 1 The Manipulator S ometimes I have very dark thoughts about my mother—thoughts no sane daughter should ever have. Sometimes, I’m not always sane. “Addie, you’re being ridiculous,” Mom says through the speaker on my phone. I glare at it in response, refusing to argue with her. When I have nothing to say, she sighs loudly. I wrinkle my nose. It blows my mind that this woman always called Nana dramatic yet can’t see her own flair for the dramatics. “Just because your grandparents gave you the house doesn’t mean you have to actually Jive in it. It’s old and would be doing everyone in that city a favor if it were torn down.” I thump my head against the headrest, rolling my eyes upward and trying to find patience weaved into the stained roof of my car. How did I manage to get ketchup up there? “And just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean I can’t live in it,” I retort dryly. My mother is a bitch. Plain and simple. She’s always had a chip on her shoulder, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. “You'll be living an hour from us! That will be incredibly inconvenient for you to come visit us, won’t it?” Oh, how will I ever survive? Pretty sure my gynecologist is an hour away, too, but I still make an effort to see her once a year. And those visits are far more painful. “Nope,” I reply, popping the P. I’m over this conversation. My patience only lasts an entire sixty seconds talking to my mother. After that, ’'m running on fumes and have no desire to put in any more effort to keep the conversation moving along. If it’s not one thing, it’s the other. She always manages to find something to complain about. This time, it’s my choice to live in the house my grandparents gave to me. I grew up in Parsons Manor, running alongside the ghosts in the halls and baking cookies with Nana. I have fond memories here—memories I refuse to let go of just because Mom didn’t get along with Nana.