I’d thought about calling the police but then realized that these might be the type of people that didn’t take kindly to tattletales. There was a good chance these were the snitches-get-stitches sort. From what I’d witnessed in my limited dealings with the crowd Richie was running in, I had a hunch that getting law enforcement involved would only put a target on mine, and by association Luna’s back.
Not knowing what else to do, I’d got out of Dodge. I quit a job that I loved, packed what I could fit into my SUV, grabbed the deed and keys to the house I’d inherited five years earlier from a grandfather I’d never met. Then Luna and I set off on a cross country road trip from Seattle, Washington to Firefly Island, Georgia.
I’d planned on driving as long as I could and then stopping to sleep. But after my first stop for gas, I’d tried to take money out of the ATM and my plans changed. When the message appeared on the screen that I had insufficient funds I printed out a receipt and was shocked to learn that both my checking and savings accounts had a zero balance. I realized I would have to survive on credit cards until my final check came through direct deposit, but that wouldn’t be for several weeks.
I wasn’t sure if it was Richie who had drained my accounts or if it was the people that had broken into my home.
Either way, my cash flow issues caused me to revise my plans. I knew more than ever that I still had to get to Georgia. I just couldn’t spend any money on luxuries like a bed to sleep in or a bathroom to take a shower in. So, I spent the next forty-eight hours drinking coffee and energy drinks and driving straight through.
And that is why I’d passed out on the couch when I sat down to unpack.
“Are you mad, Momma?” Luna asked as she twisted my hair in her hand while I carried her into our new/old house.
Some kids had blankies for security, Luna had my hair. She did have a stuffed pig that she loved, but when she didn’t have Princess Penelope Pineapple she twirled strands of my hair between her fingers.
“I am mad, but not at you. I’m mad at myself,” I admitted as I sat her down.
After closing the front door and locking the deadbolt, having another talk with Luna, and putting on Trolls I went to the bathroom for my hard-earned cry.
The problem was, once I was there all I felt was numb. All of the emotions that had been bubbling to the surface as I stood on the stranger’s porch were gone.
It didn’t surprise me that my scheduled mini breakdown was a bust. Ever since my parents died when I was eighteen and I took custody of my baby sister Ashley, who was only nine at the time, it was as if my emotions had a fail-safe switch. I would feel myself start to get emotional and then, like a switch was flipped, I would just go numb.
I’m sure it was a coping mechanism and it had worked like a charm. I’d navigated the devastating situation of losing both of my parents and becoming guardian to my sister without once losing my composure. People always commented on how well I was doing, how mature I was, and how amazing I handled all of the new responsibilities.
That was all great. But I sometimes worried that everything my subconscious had been turning off would someday turn on. I wondered if I was a pressure cooker that had no release valve. One good thing about being numb and this exhausted was that I didn’t have the energy to care.
My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket to see if it was my sister. I’d left her several messages walking the thin line between giving her enough information so she would know what was going on but not enough to worry her. She lived in California and was attending the San Francisco Art Institute. She was currently on a yoga retreat with some of her classmates. I assumed there must not be any reception where she was because every time I called it had gone straight to voicemail.
The message that came through wasn’t from her, though. It was from Reagan York who was handling my grandfather’s estate letting me know that she was around if I needed anything. When he passed over five years ago, it had been a man named Tanner Abernathy who contacted me. Then about nine months ago I’d received a letter telling me that Reagan York was now the lawyer handling this estate.
I’d emailed Reagan before I left Seattle letting her know that I’d be arriving and asked if she might be able to see if the electricity and water were turned on or if she had any names of who I should contact regarding that. She’d gone above and beyond that request. She’d not only personally handled getting the utilities taken care of, she’d also had a service come in and clean. When I arrived this morning, I wanted to cry I was so grateful. If she hadn’t, I didn’t want to think about what I would have seen when I opened that front door. It wasn’t like the place was going to pass any white glove tests, but it was habitable. I made a mental note to send her an edible arrangement as a thank you. I added it to the hundred or so other mental notes I’d made for myself over the past three days.
With a sigh, I rested my hands on the white pedestal sink and my head fell forward. It was then that I noticed my glasses sitting on the indentation for the soap. I remembered that I had taken them off when I washed my face in an attempt to wake up right before I’d headed out to the couch to unpack.
Reaching down, I picked them up and put them on. When I lifted my head and saw the reflection staring back at me, I gasped in horror and humiliation. I looked like a cross between a crazy cat lady and a vagrant ghost.
Auburn strands of hair flew every which way escaping from what started as a messy bun but could now only be classified as a disaster bun. My already fair skin was so pale I was surprised I wasn’t translucent. There were dark circles beneath my eyes highlighting the large bags that were currently residing there. And my T-shirt was wrinkled with a large coffee stain down the front.
Mortified didn’t scratch the surface of how I felt. My new neighbor, who I hadn’t even seen but had a voice and presence that had sent my hormones into overdrive, had seen me looking like this.
If I wasn’t completely broke and scared for our safety, I’d get right back in my Explorer and drive for two days straight back to Seattle.
CHAPTER 3
Hank
As I stood in my kitchen and stared out at the Thompson house two words kept running through my mind: one moment. That’s all it takes for someone’s entire life to change. At least that’s how long it took for my life to change.
The first time I’d experienced it happening was a rainy fall night a week after my thirteenth birthday. I went to sleep a kid whose biggest worry was facing Mark Lyons in the little league world series game and whether or not I was going to ask Melody or Kendra Montgomery to homecoming and woke up in a nightmare I was still living.
They say that time heals all wounds. That might very well be the case, but time sure as hell hadn’t dulled my senses or my memories of the day, or early morning everything changed. I’d been woken up by a loud knock on the door and had come downstairs to find Chief Dawson, who was just a deputy then, in the kitchen talking with my Pop. My dad’s head was hanging down and he was sobbing.
Dawson’s hand was on Pop’s shoulder as he repeated, “She’s gone, James. She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?! Who?” I shouted, even though I already knew the answer.
“Go upstairs, son.” Dawson’s authoritative command didn’t scare me.