1
SASHA
The wind howls outside our small house, rain lashing against the windows in angry sheets. Dad and I sit across from each other at the kitchen table, the silence between us occasionally broken by the scrape of forks against plates or the rumble of thunder in the distance.
“This pasta’s really good,” Dad says, twirling spaghetti around his fork. His eyes remain fixed on his plate.
“Thanks.” I push a meatball around, my appetite missing in action. “I added extra garlic this time.”
It’s been twelve years today. Twelve years since Mom died. Dad knows I know, and I know he knows, but we’re dancing around it like we always do.
“Remember how Mom used to make her pasta?” I venture carefully, watching his face. “With that special red sauce?” It’s one thing I vividly remember about her, as it was my favorite.
Dad’s fingers tighten around his fork. He takes a sip of water, Adam’s apple bobbing, then nods. “Yeah. Was good.”
That’s it. Three words for the woman he loved. I wait, hoping for more, but he keeps eating.
“I wish I remembered her better,” I say, pushing a little harder. “I was only seven when?—”
“Pass the Parmesan?” Dad interrupts, gesturing to the shaker by my elbow.
I slide it toward him, frustration bubbling in my chest. Every year it’s the same. We acknowledge the day without really acknowledging it. No stories about Mom. No details about what happened to her. Just this heavy silence that feels like it might suffocate me.
“I found an old photo yesterday,” I try again. “In that box under your bed. Mom was holding me at a barbecue. There were motorcycles in the background.”
Dad’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t snoop through my things, Sasha.”
“I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for an extra blanket.” I pause, gathering courage. “Who were those men with the leather vests? Were they your friends?”
Lightning flashes, illuminating the kitchen and the sudden tension in Dad’s shoulders. For a split-second, he looks like someone else—someone harder, someone dangerous.
“That was a long time ago.” His voice is quiet but firm. End of discussion.
I spear a meatball, disappointment bitter on my tongue. Another anniversary, another dead end.
A low rumble cuts through the patter of rain, growing louder by the second. Dad freezes mid-bite; his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. I hear it too—the unmistakable growl of motorcycle engines.
“Are those... bikes?” I ask, setting down my fork.
Dad doesn’t answer. He’s already on his feet, moving to the window faster than I’ve ever seen him move. He peers through a gap in the curtains, his broad shoulders suddenly rigid.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
He turns to me, and something in his eyes makes my blood run cold. There’s a flash of pure alarm.
“Sasha, listen to me very carefully.” His voice drops to a calm, low tone that somehow frightens me more than if he’d shouted. “There’s trouble. I need you to go to our hideout in the woods. Right now.”
Our hideout—the small cave behind the waterfall we discovered during one of our hikes. Dad made me memorize the path there in the dark, made me practice finding it from different directions. I always thought it was one of his weird survival skill games.
“What about you?” My voice cracks as headlights sweep across our living room walls.
Before Dad can answer, a thunderous crash echoes through the house—someone’s at our front door, bashing it with something heavy. The wood splinters with a sickening crack.
“You need to get out of here,” Dad mutters, then louder, “GO!”
I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest as another blow rattles the door on its hinges. This isn’t happening. This can’t be real.
