by Mila Gray
I step out of the shadows. “Cole,” I say quietly.
He startles and looks up. He’s stunned to see me, and his first reaction is surprise. Then happiness bursts across his face in the shape of a smile before a scowl replaces it.
“What are you doing here?” he says so loudly I wince and glance over my shoulder toward the room. Shit. I should have stayed quiet. But it’s too late now. I hurry toward him, ease open the metal gate, and gently close it behind me. “I came to see you,” I tell him in an anxious half whisper.
He’s at the other end of the pool. He doesn’t move toward me. He stands frozen, still scowling at me. “Cole,” I say with quiet urgency, holding out my hand to him. “You need to come with me.”
“No,” he says defiantly.
My pulse leaps. I want to turn and look at the room, but I don’t want to take my eyes off Cole. “Why did you run away?” I ask.
“I want to be with my dad,” he says. “He’s taking me to Disneyland. And fishing.” He pauses. “How did you find us, anyway?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, inching toward him like he’s a wild animal I’m trying not to startle. “But Mom and Kate are in the hospital. They’re really sick. And Mom wants to see you.”
Cole frowns at that. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Why are they in the hospital?”
I take a deep breath. I can’t tell him the truth—that Dad tried to kill them. He won’t believe me anyway.
“You’re lying!” Cole suddenly yells. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not lying,” I say, trying to get him to calm down. “They are in the hospital.”
Cole’s expression turns from wide-eyed shock to narrow-eyed anger. “You’re a liar.”
“Cole, I’m not a liar. And I love you. That’s why I’m here. Mom and Kate love you too, and they need you. We want you to come home.”
I can see him struggling to process what I’ve told him, trying to figure out if it’s lies or truth. “Dad needs me,” he says, his bottom lip trembling. “I’m all he’s got. We’re going to live by the beach. He’s going to buy me a dog and take me fishing, and we’re going to go on the Ferris wheel later today.”
I take that in. “But if you go with Dad, he’ll never let you see Mom or Kate or me ever again.”
Cole’s lip trembles some more, his eyes welling with tears.
“I know that’s not what you want,” I tell him, pushing my advantage, one eye on the door to the room. I step toward him so now I’m in touching distance. “I know you love Dad,” I say, “but, Cole, he wants to take you away from us forever.”
“Because you won’t let him see me!” Cole yells, startling me.
“No,” I answer firmly, terrified that all the yelling must have woken up my dad. I glance again over my shoulder. Where the hell are the cops? “It’s the judge who told him to stay away from us. Because he hurt Mom and he tried to hurt me.”
Cole stares at me, and I see how torn he is, how much he’s fighting against his own better judgment. “Is Mom okay?” he finally mumbles.
“I don’t know,” I tell him, relieved that he’s believing me. “But I do know that she’ll get better a lot faster if she knows you’re there. Kate, too. Come with me. Let’s go.”
Cole stares at me, his eyes filling with tears. I hold my hand out to him. After a beat, he takes it. I want to pull him into my arms and hug him, but there isn’t time, and I’m too afraid. I pull him through the gate, which slams loudly shut behind us. Wincing, I start rushing toward the street, but Cole suddenly starts fighting against me, yanking on my hand.
“No,” he says, digging in his heels. “I have to say good-bye.”
I stop and look at him. “You can’t say good-bye, Cole. We have to go. Right now.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because—” I start to say, but before I can finish, he springs out of my hand and dashes toward the room.
“Cole!” I hiss.
He stops by the door. “I need my bag,” he whispers, opening the door and slipping inside.
Oh God. I tiptoe after him, waiting outside the door, adrenaline making my heart race. What the hell is taking so long? Where is he? I inch forward and peer into the gloomy interior of the room.
A shape lunges out at me, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me inside the room. I stumble, hit the side of a bed, and fall forward with a cry, and then my dad is on top of me, pulling me upright by my hair. “Look what we found here,” he says, his snarling face pressed to mine. “Did you call the police?” he demands to know.
I’m so afraid, but instead of fighting like Tristan taught me, I’m frozen. All I can do is shake my head. I’m not an idiot. If I tell him I called, he might hurt me, snatch Cole, and run. I have to buy however many more minutes I need.
“Did you come alone?” he asks, falling straight into cop interrogation mode.
I nod. He narrows his eyes at me. “How did you find us?” He turns to Cole. “You tell her where we were?” he yells.
Cole, shocked, shakes his head. “No,” he hiccups. “I didn’t tell. I swear.”
“I found all your messages on the Xbox,” I tell him.
He scowls grimly at the mistake that has screwed things up for him. Then he shoves me backward so I collapse on the bed.
“Cole,” he says, without turning away from me, “get your bag. We’re leaving.”
Cole has started to snivel. “Where are we going?” he asks. “I want to see Mom.”
“Get your damn bag!” my dad roars at him. Cole jumps in fright, grabs for his bag on the end of the bed, and looks at me, his eyes wet with tears and fear. A surge of anger rushes through me. “Go wait by the car,” my dad says to Cole, trying for a more gentle tone. “I’ll be right there.”
Cole looks between my dad and me, lying sprawled on the bed. I see him open his mouth as though about to argue, but I shake my head at him. I don’t want him here to see whatever is about to happen. I want him out of the way. Cole backs away toward the door.
“Good boy,” my dad says to him. “Go on, now.”
“Go,” I tell Cole, trying to smile at him reassuringly. “It’ll be okay. Just go wait by the car. Dad and I are just going to talk.”
Cole seems only slightly reassured, but he does leave, shutting the door behind him.
I wonder if he’ll run for help. It’s my only hope right now. That or the cops arriving. After he’s gone, I scan my dad, looking for the telltale bulge of a gun. When I was a kid, he’d carry concealed all the time, on his ankle or shoulder if he was wearing a jacket. He’s wearing only jeans and a T-shirt right now. I wonder if he’s got a holster on his ankle.
It doesn’t matter—I’m not going to go down without a fight.
“HELP!” I shout, remembering that the first thing Tristan taught me in self-defense was to use my voice. As I open my mouth to shout again, my dad lunges toward me and grabs me by the neck, choking off the scream.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he hisses.
“You shouldn’t have taken him,” I croak.
“He wanted to come.”
“He’s a kid,” I whisper, struggling to breathe. “He doesn’t know the truth.”
My dad frowns at me, but it quickly turns into a sneer. “You took him away from me. Your mom took you all away from me. Poisoned you against me.” His fingers tighten.
My hands squeeze his wrists, and I tug at them, trying to loosen his grip. I can’t breathe. My vision is swimming. “You did that all by yourself,” I whisper, wondering where the cops are. It feels like hours since I called them, but perhaps it’s just a few minutes.
I wonder if this is how I’ll die. I’m gasping for air, trying to get him off me, but my efforts are wasted. His hands are iron vises. I can feel my strength ebbing, and I close my eyes, not wanting to see the black rage and hate in his eyes. Tristan’s face fills my mind.
And then white light. I’m flung away and land hard on the ground, dizzy and gasping, sucking
in air. I glance up, blinking against the harsh white light that fills the room. The door is wide open, daylight streaming in.
Tristan stands there, pale, wearing a bloodstained shirt, his eyes dark-circled and his one bandaged arm held against his chest. “Leave her alone,” he shouts, rushing toward us.
My dad blocks his path, and in his hand is his gun. Tristan freezes. My dad looks at me, though he keeps the gun pointed on Tristan. “You said you came alone. Always knew you were a lying bitch.”
“Please don’t hurt him,” I say, looking in panic at Tristan. “Let him go.”
“I can’t let you go,” my dad mutters, angrily crossing to the door and slamming it shut, plunging us back into darkness.
Tristan glances at me. What have I gotten him into? My dad gestures for Tristan to move, and he does, crossing quickly to me. Our hands find each other, our fingers linking, squeezing tight as we eye the gun in my dad’s hand. Tristan moves himself in front of me.
“I’m your daughter,” I say to my dad, trying to move out from behind Tristan. “I love you,” I tell him, almost choking on the lie. “We can fix this. We can work it out. Please don’t do this.”
I see the decision get made—the resolution crossing his face, and then his finger squeezing the trigger—all in slow motion, and in the same instant I slide in front of Tristan to shield him.
There’s a deafening bang, followed closely by a second bang, and I fly sideways and hit the ground. Tristan falls too.
Pain shoots through me like comets streaking across a black sky. My vision turns starry.
I look up and see the monstrous shape of my dad looming over us, the gun still in his hand. He blinks, seemingly astonished. Maybe it’s shock at what he’s done. Maybe it isn’t. Light bursts around him in a dazzling halo. The room is suddenly ablaze with light. I can’t breathe—the pain is almost as bright as the light.
I’ve been shot, I realize. But what about Tristan? Is he okay? Thoughts flit like eels through my mind, so fast and so slippery I can’t grasp on to them. The only thing I can hold on to, like a beacon in the darkness, is the thought of Tristan. Please let him be okay. I don’t care if I die. Just let him be okay.
My dad drops to his knees in front of me like a dark avenging angel. For a moment, I think he’s about to beg forgiveness for what he’s done. As the blood starts to pool around me, soaking my shirt, I stare up at him, but his expression shows no remorse, not an ounce of sorrow. He’s baring his teeth like an animal about to shred his prey.
My ears are ringing so loudly from the crack of the bullets that all other sounds are dulled. Time has slowed to a near stop. My heart seems to be following suit.
Tristan is all I can think of as the light starts to fade. I led him here. This is all my fault. Where is he? I desperately want to see him. I can feel something behind me. Something heavy and unmoving. A body? His body? I want to roll over and reach for him, but I’m paralyzed.
I desperately need to know that he’s okay.
But what if he isn’t?
What if he’s dead?
What if I’m dying too?
I’m so dazed I can’t put it all together.
But in the very next second, my father, who is still staring into my eyes, falls sideways, his head slamming into the floor beside me. He blinks at me in shock.
And next thing I know I’m being hauled to my feet and dragged away. I stare in wonder at the person doing the dragging. It’s Tristan. I would sob with relief if I weren’t in so much pain. He doesn’t seem hurt; that’s all that matters. He’s holding my face in his hands, and he’s shouting something. I can’t make out the words. But he’s alive!
Suddenly, everything ramps sharply up, as though someone has turned a tuning knob and finally hit the right frequency. “Zoey! Are you okay?” Tristan is shaking me by the tops of my arms.
I take a breath. My chest hurts but not too bad. I think I was just winded in the fall, maybe cracked a rib. I nod at him, still confused, though. What happened?
I glance down at my dad, who is clutching at his stomach, gasping, his eyes rolling back in his head. I stare in astonishment at the red stain on his shirt and the rapidly spreading pool of blood beneath him. It was his blood. Not mine. He’s been shot. The bullet he fired hit the wall behind me. And though I tried to throw myself at Tristan, to shield him, he must have pushed us both to the ground. We saved each other.
Behind Tristan, I see police in uniform, holding guns. They lower them, and I race past them and outside, ignoring the police yelling, because I can see Cole standing in the doorway right behind them. He’s seen it all happen.
“Cole,” I say, dropping to my knees in front of him, wrapping him in my arms and spinning him away from my dad, who has been swarmed by paramedics.
I bury Cole against my shoulder. “It’s okay,” I say over and over, rocking him. “It’s okay.” But how can it ever be okay? I think as the police force us up and hurry us out the room. I feel myself being pushed from person to person, still clutching Cole to me, until I find Tristan again and Dahlia, too, and they circle us and hold us tight as commotion roars around us.
Cole starts to sob, clinging to me. There’s so much noise—sirens and shouting and van doors slamming, but Tristan and Dahlia block it out so that I can sink to my knees on the concrete parking lot and hold my baby brother while he cries.
Epilogue
Three weeks later …
You good?” Tristan asks, worried.
I nod, though I think I’m lying. I have a lump in my throat, and my chest feels tight. I don’t know how I’m going to say good-bye.
“Last chance to change your mind,” Tristan says, looking at me nervously.
I loop my arms around his neck, then reach up and kiss him on the lips. “I’m never changing my mind,” I tell him.
“Good,” he mumbles, kissing me back.
I lose myself in the kiss. Ever since that day three weeks ago—the day of the accident and the shooting—I’ve become hyperaware of every single moment, focused much more on the present than dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. Every kiss, every touch is imbued with a newfound magic—with gratitude and hope and even wonder. We’re alive. We’re here.
And so is my dad. Currently, he’s in prison, awaiting trial for attempted murder as well as a litany of other crimes, including kidnapping. The lawyers say there’s no chance he’ll be let out this time, not until he’s an old man at least, and though it took me a while to actually believe them, the district attorney reassures me it’s so. I’ll have to take the stand again as a witness, but this time I’m not afraid to do so. I’m going to look him in the eye and show him that he didn’t win. I did.
Cole has been seeing a child therapist, and he’s been doing much better as a result of their intensive sessions together. The thought makes it a little easier to leave, even though I’m sad to be moving away from my new friends and my family. We’ll be back for Thanksgiving, in time to meet Jessa and Kit’s new baby. Didi and Walker will be visiting soon because Walker’s brother lives in Miami. And Will is coming to see us as soon as he’s back from deployment, something I’m both nervous and excited about. He wanted to come home right when he heard the news about Dad, but the military wouldn’t give him leave. But once he’s back, he’ll be back for good.
“I’m ready,” I say to Tristan, turning to the trunk full of our belongings. I don’t have much in the way of belongings, so mostly it’s Tristan’s things: bags of clothes, a box of ’80s DVDS that he refuses to part with. The Game of Life has made it in too, and the bacon suit puzzle. We’re shipping his bike and a few other things, like his surfboard.
“What about your baseball cards?” I ask him, looking for the old shoe box he stores them in.
He shakes his head when I turn to look at him. “I don’t have them,” he says.
“What?”
“I sold them.”
“You what?” I say, astonished. “Why?”
He
pulls something out of his back pocket. It’s a slim white envelope. He hands it to me.
I take it tentatively. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
I do. Inside are several sheets of paper. “I don’t get it,” I say flicking through them.
“I sold the cards,” he tells me. “They were sitting in a box in my closet. Figured I could put them to better use.”
I hold up the pieces of paper. “But what is this?”
“It’s an itinerary.” He smiles at me and winks. “We are going to Greece.”
I’m so confused. “We’re driving to Florida. How can we go to Greece?”
“I’m taking you to that island you wanted to go to,” Tristan says. “We’re going to visit ruins and eat moussaka and philosophize like ancient Greeks.”
I stare at him in astonishment. “But I don’t have a passport” is all I can think to say.
He hands me another envelope. I tear it open. A blue passport tumbles out. “But … how?” I ask, opening it up and seeing my own photo staring back at me.
“Remember that apartment application form I told you that you needed to sign?”
I stare at him in shock. “That was a lie?”
He shrugs and pulls a face. “You didn’t read it. You just signed. It was easy. And your mom helped me get all the other documents I needed.”
I stare at the passport, then up at Tristan, amazed and giddy with excitement. “We’re going to Greece?” I say, finally starting to process it.
“Yes,” he says, grinning at me, delighted by my delight. “We’re going for three weeks. We’re going to sail around the islands. Go to Crete and that other place you wanted to go, where the gods hang out. Milos.”
I throw my arms around him and hug him until he grunts, and I realize I’m hurting him. His arm is still recovering. Tristan tells me that they set back the dates of his pilot school training because of it, and I guess that’s one good thing—it means we have almost a month of vacation!
