Cal dashed inside. He slammed the sliding glass door shut and flipped the lock. After a beat of panicked silence, he heard it.
The record player.
Upstairs, “Wish You Were Here” blared and brought with it a cold shock of terror. Sick with heartache, he almost sprinted to his office.
Don’t go up there, Cal. Whatever you do, don’t go up there,a voice warned within.
He bolted through the laundry room, into the garage, and yanked at the car’s door.
Locked, it was locked.
Keys.
He needed the keys.
Cal bounded back inside. His palms collided against the kitchen table, and he upended stacks of paper that tumbled to the floor.
Music blasted through the house in an awful symphony. Delirious with fear, Cal’s vision blurred, but his hands met his keys, and he snatched them up along with his wallet before sprinting to the garage.
With the car in reverse, he jammed the accelerator and sent empty trash bins sailing through the air as he peeled from the driveway. He watched in horror as Amelia’s bedroom light flashed on, and the drapes rustled in the window.
Cal fled Portland. He ran from a threat that had no name or true manifestation beyond the unearthly terror it imparted. He understood something of his daughter’s fear, the reason she ran from home.
Cal had no choice but to do the same.
SIXTEEN
AMELIA
Mirabelle broke the news.
“I’m so sorry, love. Your momma didn’t make it,”she said through glistening tears.
Amelia denied it at first.
It was a trick. A ruse. A sick joke.
Haunting silence came next, that moment before the surge, and then grief took her under with a wail she didn’t recognize as her own. Her knees crashed to the floor, and the rest vacated her memory with shades of black. Black behind her eyes at night. Black from the curtains drawn shut by day.
That first night, Amelia sobbed into a pillow so hard she nearly smothered herself. Mirabelle had been there to remind her to breathe and, in the days to come, cradled her, cried with her, drew hot baths, hummed sweet songs.
Liam Moriarty offered his condolences with white peonies and a kind note. Even Jack apologized for her loss. His bright blue eyes had gleamed with sincerity, and Amelia accepted it politely but asked to be left alone.
They all came, all except Emory.
Like a pebble in her shoe, his absence grew more obvious with each passing day. That she craved his comfort added complexity to the pain. Amelia wanted to curl up beside him andsleep for days, but it was foolish to seek shelter in such a hard man.
She saw Emory only once in passing. So engrossed in his inner world, he hadn’t seen her sipping tea at the kitchen island. She tried to make herself small, but even her diminished presence disturbed him. Emory turned to her as if expecting someone else. Whatever he meant to say perished on parted lips, so he tipped his head and let her be, and Amelia thought that was just as well.
After a week, her heartache hardened to a dead calm. Amelia laid awake most nights and stared at the ceiling until pastel dawn spilled through the window.
Horrible questions kept her awake. Had it been quick? Quick enough her mom wasn’t afraid or in pain? Had she been alone? Was her father alone now too? Some nights she tried to sleep but saw Brian in her dreams choking on clots of blood and with the light leaving his eyes.
Tonight, sleep was hard won for different reasons. Emory had business in Las Vegas tomorrow and planned to take her with him. Mirabelle had told her that afternoon and even echoed Emory’s logic: “It’s safer this way.” But that wasn’t Mirabelle’s truth, only Emory’s, so she faltered when she said it, and Amelia dwelled on that fracture of doubt.
She tossed to her side and stared at the clock.
2:32 AM.
