No answer.

Where is he? The house was filled with the aroma of pot roast so he had to be here. He would never leave with the stove on.

Something did not feel right. Then I felt the cold draft coming down the hallway. He must have gone out back to see why Charlie was barking and left the door open. I shook my head. He was always scolding me for doing that.

I smelled it just before I reached the kitchen, a warm coppery scent that made my stomach lurch and my pulse quicken. A cry burst from me when I stepped inside and saw the spray of red across the white cupboards and the trail of blood that disappeared out through the open door.

Fear exploded in my chest. “Daddy!” I cried, running for the door. My boots skidded on the slick blood and I flailed as I fell through the doorway, landing hard on my hands and knees on the back step. My head came up and I saw the bloody steps, the broken railing and…

“No!” I crawled frantically toward the figure lying at the bottom of the steps, his favorite blue shirt shredded and bloody. I felt it then, the horrible pulling sensation of a life draining away. “No, Daddy, no!” I threw myself on him, begging him to stay with me as I poured my power into him until there was nothing left to give. It was not enough. His green eyes stared sightlessly at the grey sky as the first snowflakes touched his ravaged face.

“No!” I came awake with a cry and stared blindly in the dark with my heart thudding against my ribs. Reaching up a trembling hand, I swiped at the tears on my cheeks and pushed damp strands of hair out of my face. I lay there for several minutes as my heart rate returned to normal and the last vestiges of the dream left me.

The curtain fluttered, drawing my eyes to the pale light coming through the window. Far out in the bay a buoy clanged and closer to shore a sea otter whistled. Soothed by the familiar noises, I threw off my covers and went to push the window open wider, letting cold morning air fill the room. I took a deep calming breath of ocean air as I listened to the muted sounds of the bay and let myself think about the dream.

In the beginning the nightmare came every night, the same paralyzing dream that ripped me from sleep, screaming in terror. Time after time Nate tried to get me to tell him about the dream, to talk about what I’d been through, but to speak of the horror out loud and relive those moments was more than I could bear.

I’d seen the police reports. Our neighbor called in the disturbance and when the police responded they found me lying on top of my father’s body, both of us covered in snow. At first they thought I was dead too, until one of the policemen checked and found a pulse. I was rushed to the hospital, suffering from shock. The child psychologist who examined me later said I suffered from “severe psychological trauma from witnessing her father’s brutal murder”. She recommended a few weeks in a child psych ward.

Nate’s response: “Absolutely not.” My uncle knew something about post traumatic stress. He was twenty-three when he was hit by shrapnel in Bosnia that left him in a wheelchair. He said I needed to be with family and, since my grandmother was too ill to care for a child, he brought me here to live with him. I knew it wasn’t easy for him, a single man in a wheelchair suddenly faced with raising a traumatized kid. But he did it anyway and I loved him for it, though I could not find the words to tell him what it meant to me. Sometimes I thought of us as a pair of damaged bookends. We both had our flaws but we belonged together even if there was always something between us, keeping us apart.

My alarm clock said six o’clock so I knew it was useless trying to go back to sleep. Instead I drew the covers up over my bed and headed for the bathroom to get ready for school. I splashed cold water over my face and studied my pale complexion and my eyes that were still haunted by the lingering effects of the dream. I released a shuddering breath and started the shower. What a way to start the week.

*     *     *

“I heard her bike gang did it. He’s lucky he’s alive.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I think Greg McCoy just got out of prison or something.”

“I had no idea she ran with such a hard crowd.”

“You guys are all way off base. I say she did it herself and knowing him, he deserved it.”

I glanced up from my book and the whispers died as the students at the surrounding tables suddenly found their lunch trays interesting. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I dabbed a French fry in ketchup and plopped it in my mouth. I should have been used to it by now. When you keep to yourself, people will fill in the details about your life themselves. But a bike gang? Really?

I looked at the end of my table where Jeffrey Crumb sat eating his hamburger and fries. Jeffrey gave me a lopsided smile, sharing in my amusement over the gossip before he bent over his own book again. Blond and painfully thin, Jeffrey was two years younger than me and he lived with his grandparents, one street over from me. I heard his mother was a serious drug addict who got pregnant at eighteen and Jeffrey was born with a bunch of health issues. He was pretty smart but small for his age and he found it hard to talk to other kids. We started sharing a table a few years ago because we both liked to read at lunch, even when Greg chose to sit with us. No one dared mess with Jeffrey after that, most likely because they were afraid I’d sic Greg on them. Greg might be gone now but it looked like some of his reputation had rubbed off on me. I didn’t mind if it kept people from bothering us.

I wondered how word got out about the fight because I knew Scott and Ryan would not tell anyone. I’d gotten a glimpse of Scott in second period Chemistry and I’d had to suppress a gasp at his black eyes and swollen nose. Apparently no one was buying his story about swerving his car to avoid hitting a deer, but how on earth had they connected his bruises to me?