Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Emma slid past her father’s hand and out of the car. Just trying to bear her own weight made her dizzy, and she had to place a palm atop the car’s roof for support. She looked upon the cabin, the snow-covered trees poking from the ground like the skeletal hands of a giant—anywhere but at her father.

I . . . I kept hoping he’d get better. But it’s never going to happen. Ever. He’s lost it. He’s lost . . .

Tears welled in her eyes when she tried to reconcile the gentle parent of her youth—the man who read her bedtime stories, built her treehouse, and scared away the monsters under her bed—with someone willing to pump her full of drugs to avoid an argument.

Just because it was faster! Faster!

Emma wiped at the tears threatening to fall.

Jesus Christ . . . who are you?

The hand that fell atop Emma’s head, trying to stroke her hair, felt like talons. She and her father pulled away from each other at the same instant. Still unsteady, Emma lost her balance and crashed ass-first into four inches of snow. She scrambled backward in an awkward crabwalk when her father knelt to help her up. He lifted his hands, the palms turning red from cold.

“Em . . . Emmie . . . it’s okay.”

“The hell it is!” She rolled up the sleeve of the jacket that had been put on her, prodding the little wound the needle had left behind. “Does this look okay to you? Really?”

Her father hung his head before giving a slight nod.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. But I didn’t have time to convince you. To argue with you.” He stood up, dusting off the snow clinging to his pants. “And I’d much rather have you mad at me than dead.”

Emma staggered up, trying to dry her freezing fingers on the front of her jacket.

“Because it’s the end of the world? Do you really not understand how crazy that sounds?” She looked him in the eye, all the resentment of the last year finally boiling out of her. “Everything we’ve done since Mom died was crazy.”

Her father slammed the car door before wagging a finger at her.

“Don’t you bring her into this! If I’d been smarter then . . . ” He shook his head. “Please, you’re cold. I’m cold. Let’s at least get inside and warm up. We can talk there.”

Emma was ready to refuse before she noticed the numbness creeping through her legs. Even the bit of forearm poking from her sleeve was covered in gooseflesh.

“Fine.”

Her father walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk. He had two massive bags slung over each shoulder before he led the way to the front door. Even through the canvas, Emma caught the familiar tang of gun oil. Muttering, he juggled the bags and hunted in the front pocket of his shirt until he extracted a key.

Emma didn’t know what to expect when the door swung open. Part of her had been bracing for animal heads on the walls and a swarm of bugs to flee the light spilling across the floor. A hillbilly’s lair. Instead, the place was stripped down to essentials and cleaned almost to the point of being antiseptic. Every piece of furniture inside from the living room couch to the bookcases was new and feng shuied.

Emma sniggered at her reflection in the polished floorboards and the stairs leading to the next floor.

I guess even Dad’s inner caveman has OCD.

She flinched when her father pointed a finger over her shoulder.

“Your room is down the hall past the living room. First door on the right. You go ahead and take a load off while I get your things.”

Doing as she was told, Emma heard her father grumble as the bags jostled against each other, canvas rustling while he climbed the stairs.

Get out . . . I’ve got to get out of here!

Her hand immediately went to the pocket that had held her cell phone, only to find it empty. She didn’t recall seeing any phones in the rooms she’d passed by, either.

Shit! Fuck! Of course he made sure I couldn’t get a hold of anyone. She swatted at the flakes still clinging to her clothes. And there’s zero chance I’d make it more than a mile or two in that weather.

Pausing in her room’s doorway, her ears picked up the jingling of keys overhead before a door clicked shut.

At least now I know where he keeps the guns. So much for making him drive us home.

Despite all he’d done, Emma felt bile rise at the thought of pointing a weapon at her father.

Even if I got that far, I’d never be able to pull the trigger. I’ll bet he knows it, too.

She began to sit on the bed before the water squelching in her pants convinced her to wait for her bag. It gave her a few minutes to take in the Spartan décor surrounding her. A bookcase with a few choice volumes of crazy on the shelves, a squat twin bed with a camo blanket, and a window on the wall. A steel shutter was suspended over it in place of drapes.

Probably safety glass, too. Just like home. Great.

Emma looked outside at the forest of naked trees. Even the bark clear of the snow was white. She watched the wind blow the drifts between the trunks, the flakes swirling toward the cabin in visible gusts. The wind gained strength, blowing the snow and spinning higher into the air, the cloud thickening in spots as it pulled fresh powder from the ground. A rapid succession of Rorschach images blew across the landscape.

For just a second, one almost looked like an open mouth.

Emma blinked, the impression already gone by the time she opened her eyes. She tweaked her forehead.

God, get a grip, girl. You’ve got bigger problems than snow.

A knock on the door drew her attention from the scene outside.

“Em?”

“Just leave it out there.” She held her head in her hands. “Just leave it.”

Emma waited until her father’s footsteps had faded out of earshot before cracking the door wide enough to pull her bug-out bag inside. She opened it up, pulling out a fresh pair of pants and underwear when she caught the window in her peripheral vision. Glancing back and forth between the clothes and the thick flakes striking the pane, she bit her lip and pulled the shutter down.