Chapter 19
The flames from the burn pit flicker and shake as they consume what’s left of Chris.
His funeral, if you could call it that, was hours ago, and like all funerals, it wasn’t really for him.
Funerals are for the living because the dead don’t give a damn.
His family wanted a burial, but others were worried about contamination, fearing the infection could spread to the drinking water or crops.
I’ve been sitting out here alone for a while now in this old, rickety lawn chair because I can’t seem to pull myself away from the fire.
A reminder of a simpler time. I slap my hand against my forearm, squashing a mosquito midbite.
I flick the crushed bug into the grass, leaving behind a droplet of smeared blood.
It’s quiet tonight, like nature is giving Chris a moment of silence.
But the silence is soon interrupted by boots squelching over damp grass, growing louder as they approach.
Dad appears at my side, pulling up a lawn chair and plopping it down next to me. He exhales sharply as he takes a seat, staring at the flames, which create dancing shadows across his tired face.
“How’re you doing, Casey?”
“Fine,” I say.
Dad tilts his head and looks to me. “How are you really doing?”
I exhale and turn to meet his gaze. “I’m surviving.” There’s nothing in my voice. It’s as though a robot is speaking, not a human with thoughts and feelings.
Dad reaches over, resting his hand on mine as it grips the arm of my chair. “I’m sorry. I know this must have brought up some bad memories for you.”
He’s right about that. I think that’s why I’m death-gripping the arms of this chair and why I haven’t moved in hours.
It feels like the past is pulling me back, forcing me to relive a painful memory I thought I had stored in a box and locked away.
I glance back at the fire and blink and it’s 2006 again.
A teddy bear I got when I was six was tucked under my arm, just like I was tucked under the covers, lying in bed.
My eyes were shut tight as I tried to fall into a dream—but sleep wouldn’t come.
The sound of shattering glass made me sit up in bed.
A door creaked open from somewhere in the house.
Then there were footsteps—heavy ones, and more than one pair.
My mom called out, “Hello?” I slid out of bed and tiptoed to my partially open bedroom door. “Dale?” my mom said, clearly hoping that my dad had returned home early from an emergency plumbing-service call and the noise was just him being clumsy in the dark.
Dressed in a set of pink pajamas, I quietly walked down the hall, pausing at the staircase to listen.
Someone else was in the house, someone other than my mother and me.
I took the steps slow, careful to avoid the ones I knew creaked and moaned.
Mom screamed, and I froze in place. My heart pounded so hard I thought I could hear it.
I thought whoever was in the house could hear it.
There was a loud noise in the kitchen, followed by boots squeaking against the tile floor.
I crept slowly and stopped in front of the swinging door that led to the kitchen.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” said a male voice.
“Casey, get out of the house. Run!” Mom screamed.
A mix of grunts and groans and banging followed. I was confused. I wanted to see what was happening, but Mom told me to run, and I was supposed to listen to Mom.
“Casey, run!” she yelled again, but this time it came out strained.
“Dude, let’s go,” another voice said, less deep than the first one.
I didn’t listen to Mom. Instead, I pushed open the door, and as I did, I watched a man dressed in black plunge a kitchen knife into my mother over and over and over again.
My eyes swam with tears and my hands flew to my mouth, muffling a scream.
The man in black shoved her to the floor.
She coughed and red liquid sprayed from her mouth.
The other man yelled in horror, “What the fuck!” before taking off out the splintered back door. The man with the knife followed, his boots crunching over broken glass.
“Mom,” I said, my voice cracking with sadness.
“Casey,” Mom gasped.
I rushed to her side and cried, asking her what I should do. Her light-blue top was now painted red. She reached up, stretching out her hand and grabbing a dish towel hanging from the oven door above her.
“Call . . . the . . . police,” she said just above a whisper as she pressed the cloth against her stained red shirt.
I ran to the cordless phone on the countertop and dialed 9-1-1, but it made no sound. Putting it back on the receiver, I picked it up again and redialed. It was silent.
“The phone doesn’t work!” I said in a panic.
Mom shut her eyes tight and pressed her lips together, forming a strained, tight smile or maybe a vacuum seal to hold in the despair.
“Where’s yours and Dad’s cell phone?” I asked, desperately thinking of other options.
She slowly shook her head. “Your dad . . . took it with him.”
I cried and asked what I should do. When she didn’t answer, I begged her to tell me, yelling, “Please, please, please,” over and over.
Finally, she spoke, but it felt like it was for my sake rather than her own.
“Casey . . . go to the neighbor’s house.
It’s a little over a mile down the road, the way we take to school.
Run as fast as you can and tell them to call the police.
” Mom’s words came out slow, like she was pushing them out, using all her energy to utter them.
“Can’t you come with me?”
She coughed up more blood. It splattered in small flecks across her face. “No, but I’ll be right here . . . waiting for you.”
The tears came so fast, it felt like I was underwater. “You promise?”
“Yes, Case . . . Now go.”
I nodded and wiped the tears away. I had to be brave for her. She called, “I love you,” as I raced out the front door.
“I love you too, Mom,” I said, and then I took off down the long driveway, heading toward the neighbor’s house.
I ran as fast as I could. My throat burned as I sucked in cold air.
My lungs screamed but I screamed right back.
I knew I couldn’t stop, no matter how much I couldn’t breathe, no matter how tired I was, no matter how badly my muscles ached.
I had to keep moving. There were no cars on the road that night.
It was just ten-year-old me and a dark country back road.
Finally, the neighbor’s house came into view. No lights were on, and I worried no one would be home or maybe they were fast asleep and wouldn’t bother answering. I pounded on the front door until my hands hurt. A porch light flicked on.
“Who is it?” an older woman yelled from inside the house, fear in her voice.
“Casey Pearson,” I cried.
A lock clicked and the door pulled open. On the other side stood Elaine. I didn’t know her name then, but I learned it that night. “Oh my God, sweetheart, come in. What’s wrong?” she asked, ushering me inside.
By the time an ambulance arrived, it was too late. Mom was gone, and everything changed after that, including my father.
“Casey,” my dad says, snapping me back to the present. I blink once, twice, and the past fades away, replaced by the flickering flames in the burn pit.
“I’m fine, Dad, really,” I say, but the tears in my eyes tell him the opposite.
“It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart.”
He’s told me that before—many times, actually. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t believe it. The guilt from that night lives inside me like a tumor too risky to operate on, so you just have to learn to carry on with it. I could have run faster. I could have helped fight back.
Tears fall from my dad’s eyes, and he doesn’t have to say what’s on his mind for me to know what he’s thinking. “It wasn’t your fault either.”
He sits quietly for a moment, chewing on my words. I’m sure he’ll spit them right back out, because he can’t not blame himself, and the feeling is mutual. I guess I really am my father’s daughter.
“I think back to that night nearly every day, all the things I wish I would have done differently. I should have left the cell phone behind, but your mother insisted I take it, just to be safe. Those were her words. I should have sent one of my employees to take care of that emergency call, but I figured I was up anyway.” He shakes his head as he speaks.
“The only people to blame are the men that broke into our house. They killed Mom, not you,” I say, lifting my chin, wishing I could believe my own words. They are responsible for killing her, but I’m the one who didn’t save her.
“It was my job to keep you and your mother safe, and I failed at that.” He pulls his lips in and inhales through his nose.
“You have kept me safe, and look at how many people you’re keeping safe right now.” I wave my arm back toward the main house and cabins. “You’ve more than done your job, Dad.” I flip my hand over and squeeze his.
He nods and tears escape the corners of his eyes, streaking his face.
They fall slowly, having to trudge through an untraveled path.
I haven’t seen my father cry since the night my mother was murdered.
After that, he held it all in to be strong for me.
The light from the fire makes his tears glint.
Seeing his grief on full display swells the guilt inside me.
But this shame isn’t because of what I failed to do for my mom; it’s because of what I did do to my dad.
“I lied to you,” I say, meeting his gaze.
“About what?”
“My reason for staying away. I didn’t not come back because I was too busy or didn’t have the time.
It was because I resented you. I hated my childhood.
I hated all the work you made me do. I hated that I was teased for the life you made us live.
I hated you because of all of this.” I fan my hands out in front of me. “I just hated you so much.”
“I know, Casey, and I’m sorry.” He pats my hand. “When your mom died, my world ended. So, for me, it’s felt like I’ve been surviving the end of times for twenty-plus years.” His voice cracks.
“I wish I would have been there for all of them, Dad, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t.”
“Don’t be. I took enough from you, and I wish I could give it all back, especially your childhood.” He shakes his head.
“Technically, I do kind of have my childhood back.”
A confused expression settles on his face.
“You know, because I’m back at home, working on all your super-fun projects, and even Blake is here, making my life a living hell again. It feels like I never left,” I say with a shrug and a smile.
Dad chuckles.
From behind us, someone clears their throat. Dad and I wipe at our tears and straighten in our chairs. Like father, like daughter.
“Hey, Dale,” Blake says, standing just off to the side dressed in a gray hoodie and a pair of jeans.
“Speak of the devil,” I say, looking him up and down. I tighten my eyes, wondering what he’s up to now. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll somehow involve messing with me. He just can’t help himself.
“Hello to you too, Casey.” He softly smiles, further raising my suspicions.
“What’s up, Blake?” Dad asks.
“I hate to bring this up, given the timing and all.” Blake looks over to the still-burning funeral pyre.
“But according to the schedule, Chris was supposed to be on night watch.” None of us wants to admit it, but night watch is too important to go unassigned, even though it means erasing Chris from our lives sooner than might be okay.
“I just wanted to let you know that I can take it.”
“You’re going on a run tomorrow, though.”
I perk up, leaning forward in my chair. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re not ready to go on a run,” Blake says, cocking his head.
“No, I’ll do night watch.”
“You’re not read—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Shut up, Blake. It’s literally walking around the property that I’m more familiar with than you. How can I not be ready for that?”
“There’s more to it than just walking around,” he says, rocking back on his heels. I swear he just likes to challenge me. If I said the sky was blue, Blake would argue that it depends on the day—which is true, but still.
“I literally disarmed JJ while he was on night patrol, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Blake looks to my dad, who reacts by raising his brows and shrugging with one shoulder. His way of saying, She has a point.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll show you what you need to do.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t need you to show me how to walk my own property.”
“Dale.”
I grumble. I still don’t understand how they can possibly be friends. Blake has nothing in common with anyone, except maybe Satan.
“Casey, just let him show you.”
I stand corrected. What they have in common is they’re always in agreement regarding what’s best for me. Which is incredibly annoying.
“I don’t need a chaperone.”
“Then no night watch for you,” Dad says, taking his side once again. He looks to Blake. “Is there anyone else that wants to volunteer?”
Blake taps a finger on his chin like he’s mulling it over.
“Everyone else is asleep. It was a rough day, what with clearing the bodies, repairing the fence, and obviously, the funeral. But I’m sure Greg would if we asked.
He’s always trying to prove himself, so I’ll go see if he’s up for it,” he says, turning.
“Fine.” I stand from my chair dramatically and start marching toward the house. “Let’s go, Blake.”
I pause and glance back, noticing he’s not following me. Instead, he stands there with a tickled look on his face.
“Blake, are you coming, or do you need to ask my dad for permission?”
My father belly laughs.
“Oh, I’m coming.” He jogs to catch up with me.
“You two have fun.”
“We won’t,” I yell back, shooting a glare at Blake.