Page 1 of Protected from Torment

CHAPTER 1

MELISSA

It’s almost as if the weather is warning me to go back.

What started out as a light drizzle ten minutes ago has transformed into the rainstorm the weather app predicted would hit thirty miles east of here.

When I set out on my trip just after noon, I checked the weather, of course. At thirty-eight, I’ve moved past the spontaneous road trips of my youth. Gone are the days when Vince and I would pack up the car and pick a random direction to head in, not with a particular destination in mind, but just to explore. Back then, we didn’t care where we ended up. It was all about the experience—finding quaint restaurants in tiny towns and sweet bed and breakfasts tucked away in the woods. It was visiting strange and unique museums dedicated to Bigfoot or bottle-making or ventriloquist puppets.

The last one was pretty creepy, now that I’m thinking about it. I’ve never been bothered by horror movies—or at least, I didn’t used to be—but there was something about those wide-eyed dolls with the jointed jaws that seemed… predatory. Though I knew better, I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder every few minutes, just to make absolutely sure the dolls hadn’t come to life while my back was turned.

They didn’t, of course. But it still creeped me out. When I admitted it to Vince after we left, he gently scolded me, saying, “Melly, if you didn’t like it there, why didn’t you tell me? We didn’t have to stay.”

Vince was always so brave; I guess I wanted to show, in some small way, that I could be, too.

It’s kind of silly, really. Comparing what Vince did—flying Black Hawks on daring rescue missions all over the world—to venturing through a silly museum. But that was back before everything went bad. Before I realized bravery isn’t facing creepy puppets and watching horror movies with the lights off. Before I learned that sometimes bravery is just surviving.

A sudden gust of wind catches my hatchback, threatening to tug it off course and jerking my wandering thoughts back to the present. In a matter of minutes, the impending storm has darkened the sky to an ominous gray, incongruous to the blue skies of half an hour ago.

Large splats of rain blur the windshield, so I switch the wipers to full speed. The frenetic pace of them makes my anxiety leap. As another gust tugs at the car, my knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.

I should be used to driving in summer storms by now. After all, I grew up in the Adirondacks, not far from here, in North Creek. I know how quickly the rain can whip up, knocking down trees and flooding rivers and streams. My dad even took me out to practice driving in a storm not quite as bad as this, explaining, “Better to learn now, in a controlled environment, than when you’re not expecting it.”

An involuntary smile tugs at my lips at the memory. Not of driving in the school parking lot in the rain, but after, when my dad congratulated me on how well I did. “You kept your cool, Melly,” he told me. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

So I should be taking this storm in stride.

The shifting trees shouldn’t feel as though they’re taking on a life of their own, their branches bending and reaching for me.

The collecting clouds shouldn’t feel claustrophobic.

My heart shouldn’t be jumping every time the wind buffets the car and makes the steering wheel jerk in my hands.

Shouldn’t is the operative word.

But in reality, it all bothers me. And it makes me desperately want to turn around and go home.

I can’t, though. I promised Vince’s parents I’d visit this weekend, and I won’t—can’t—go back on my word. They look forward to seeing me on these twice-yearly visits, or at least they always insist they do. “Your visits are the highlight of my year,” Vince’s mom likes to say. “It’s like getting a little bit of Vince back again.”

I get it. I really do. With their only son gone, they’re lonely. Rattling around in their too-big-for-them house in Lake Placid, all they have to remember Vince are photos and his old bedroom that’s basically been turned into a shrine. But when I come for a visit, we talk about Vince. I tell them stories from the years we were together. I comfort his mom when she gets teary, reminding her of how much Vince loved them.

He did. Very much. And if bringing up old memories helps his parents, I’m happy to do it.

Well.

Maybe not happy. Because even six years after Vince’s death, it hurts to talk about him. Not as much as it used to, because even the most jagged and painful wounds scab over eventually. But visiting his parents is like ripping off the scab and setting it bleeding again.

Still, it’s the least I can do.

So here I am. Sucking it up. Making the drive from my rental house in Northville—a little town on the shores of Sacandaga Lake—to Vince’s parents’ house for the weekend. Mentally girding myself for the hours of reminiscing and talking about if-onlys and what-ifs.

If only Vince were here, you’d probably have a family by now.

What if you and Vince had kids? Would they have his dark brown eyes, or your blue? Would they be tall like him, or short, like you?

I don’t tell them that the subject of babies makes my heart feel like it’s dying.

I never tell them that this trip feels more and more like a weight bearing down on me, compressing my chest until it’s hard to breathe.