The Darkest Flower (Allison Barton, #1)

by Kristin Wright

Back in law school, they told us we’d be helping people. They didn’t mention that we would, more often than not, dislike the people we were helping.

Damned southerners. I knew. I was one. Southerners were never blunt. They hated a mess. They’d stick a knife in you like anyone else, but they’d coat it in butter and make it smell like honeysuckle first. I’d been tarred and feathered and they’d been so sweet about it that I never felt it until I’d been dripping goose down for a country mile.

Mothering is a shit job: the only measure of success is the success of the offspring, and dammit, they would be successful if it killed me. It would be nice if they helped me out a bit.

We’d all go straight to hell together. There’d be a line for entry longer than the ones at Disney for Space Mountain.