I don’t want to die, but I’m not afraid of it, either. Living’s a pain in the ass. Seriously.
Except…
Amber.
What if my father’s alive?
What if he’s out there?
Why didn’t he search for us?
Do I reallywantto find him?
I draw in shaky breaths, but I’ve done such a mindfuck on myself over the past several hours that I don’t evenknowwhat I want anymore. If I choose Dexter and effectively isolate myself from the shifters, what then? I’ll be ostracized if shit goes south.
How can I stay neutral if I’m getting a dose of Vitamin D—forDick—from Dexter every night?
The answer, for those of you still uncertain—Ican’t. I won’t be allowed to be neutral at that point. It’s impossible.
I’ll lose the trust of the Tucson pack and other shifters, because I’ll have made my coffin and will be told it’s time for me to lie in it.
I’ve been alone for nearly twenty years. On my own.
Never let anyone in.
Survival mode.
Never allowed myself to think of anywhere as “home,” because I knew I could be bugging out the next day.
Tucson is the first place I wasreallystarting to hope could be that home for me. Where it felt like my terrified roots werefinallystarting to tentatively spread out a little.
I have a small photo album, one of those single-photos to a page size. Those are all the photos I have of Mom and me together because back then, she’d always have the cheapest cell phone possible, usually without a camera, or it had a crappy camera.
One of my favorites was taken when I was sixteen, and we were at a park with neighbors. The mom of that family took it with her phone and printed it out and gave us a copy. Mom looked tired but happy. My hair was reddish blonde then, matching hers, and you can see how much we look alike with our smiles. We were both wearing tank tops because, luckily, we were the same size and could share clothes.
It was a good day. One of the last truly “good” days I can remember, where my soul actually feltlighter, before she died the next year.
I drop the album on the bed and hurry to the bathroom, where I shut myself inside, turn on the sink in case Dexter’s listening, and softly cry.
* * *
I’m hopingthe fact that I don’t smell any smoke or charbroiled Dexter is a good sign. At 6:18, I’m obsessively trying to vacuum up the nonexistent dust on my windowsill—
ash
—with the Dustbuster—
ash from his hair because he’s a
—when I hear a noise—
fricking vampire and might be dead-dead now because of me
—that startles me.
Wheeling around, I see the closet door open as the blue painter’s tape gives way with a startledbuuurrrrpthat yanks a hysterical bray of laughter from me.
I step toward the closet and belatedly realize I’m holding the Dustbuster out in front of me.
