Fire Lake may be romanticized for its beauty, but the brochures aren't discussing my neighborhood. I hurried through the gates of Rocky Ridge Trailer Park, a sloppy collection of run-down mobile homes wedged conveniently out of sight from the rest of the valley. My mother and I shared a depressing tan-and-peach unit slumped in the far corner.
A few heads turned as I slunk along the dusty rows- dodging clotheslines, stepping over Fred and Joe Wilson, who were passed out in the mud beside their fire pit, Fred's lawn chair overturned and resting on his face. Early risers were puttering about, watering plants or coaxing dogs to do their business. But no one spared more than a passing glance. It wasn't that kind of place.
The gazes I did meet carried an unspoken anxiety. People moved stiffly, almost robotically, frowning to themselves, as if even mundane tasks were nearly more than they could bear. I bristled at the tension.
Yes, humanity was in danger of extinction. I knew the awful truth. If the Anvil struck the planet-at any angle-almost nothing would survive. Doomsday might be at hand, and we'd find out in just a few hours. But I couldn't deal with both things at once. Not then. Not after what had happened in my bedroom.
Sorry, world. I've got my own problems.
My steps slowed as I drew close to home. I'd been gone nearly twenty-four hours this time. In all the deaths before, I'd never missed an entire night. My mother had grown used to my unexpected comings and goings-a pattern I'd cultivated to cover this very situation-but I was definitely pushing it this time.
She might not even be here.
Mom had been working the graveyard shift for three weeks, pouring coffee for the glory of minimum wage. It was possible I'd beaten her home, but there wasn't a car to tip me off. We didn't own or need one. I couldn't remember the last time we'd left the valley. Mom walked into town every day, same as me.
I studied the stoop for signs. A smudged handle. Wet footprints on our grubby welcome mat. But nothing outside the trailer caught my attention.
Then a shudder passed through me.
The black-suited man was here. He came right through to end my life.
Anything I detected could be his doing.
My pulse accelerated. It took me several moments to calm down. Then, disgusted with everything, I lurched forward and pulled the screen door wide.
She was home.
Keys on the counter. Her iPod was connected to a pair of desk speakers-our redneck stereo-and Adele was crooning softly in the gloom. The TV was off. Our router blinked at me from across the room. I'd demanded Wi-Fi to live, and had finally gotten my wish the day I turned thirteen. An odd-numbered birthday, so safe, and not unlucky at all. One of the few that had actually been pleasant.
Not that we paid for Internet service. There were dozens of tourist businesses in the valley. Nobody noticed a little stolen bandwidth. Mom and I usually swiped ours from the ski resort straight east. Even our cable was hooked up under-the-table, thanks to a friend.
Her door was closed. I imagined her crawling into bed a few minutes ago, worried sick about me but worn out after another backbreaking twelve-hour shift.
My room was at the opposite end. I crept across the living room, wincing with every creak. The irony wasn't lost on me. Reaching my door, I paused to examine it. No bullet hole. The metal slats looked exactly as they always had.
I slid the door open. The track failed to squeak for the first time I could recall.
My heart skipped a beat. I rarely discovered mistakes.
Inside, my room was in perfect order. Bed made. Clothes neatly folded. Shoes in a haphazard pile under my desk. The carpet was clean. No damage to the closet, walls, or floor.
My fifth murder, erased.
Like it never happened.
A thump carried across the trailer. Crap. I shed my clothes and ruffled the covers, hoping Mom might think I was just getting up rather than just getting home.
I waited a minute, then yawned theatrically, opening my door and trudging to our shared bathroom. It didn't take long-the living room stretches only twenty feet. A seedy couch, a beanbag chair, and Mom's ancient rocker surrounded a coffee table where we ate every meal. Bookshelf. Floor lamp. Battered desk. We could pack up everything and move inside of an hour, though we'd probably just leave the stuff.
Her door stayed shut as I scrubbed my teeth while showering, washed my face, then ran a brush through straight black hair that barely reached my chin. I paused a moment, staring into the mirror. Saw the ghost of my mother, thirty years ago.
I looked away. Some things you don't want to see.
Crossing back to my room, I hurriedly got dressed-fresh jeans, Walking Dead tee, socks, sneaks, and a black zip-front hoodie. No one's ever accused me of being a fashion maven. I shoved books into a backpack and arrowed for the front door. The town had decided that school would remain open this week, and first bell was in thirty.
The knob was turning in my hand when my mother's door screeched open. Her head poked through the gap. One look, and I knew she wasn't fooled. Questions burned in her watery gray eyes, but she held them back.
"Promise me you'll be home for the Announcement."
Mom was short and slim like me, with long, stringy hair going white at the roots. Pale skin, pulled tight over birdlike features and a thin-lipped, frowning mouth. Everything about her seemed fragile and overused, like a wildflower that never got enough water.
I silently cursed the deadbeat father I'd never even met-a daily tradition upon seeing my mother's weathered face. Then I cursed myself. Because I just wanted out of there.
Try as I might, at moments like this I felt nothing more strongly than . . . distaste.
Disappointment. That my mother had allowed her life to reach this point. That the same could happen to me.
Shame blossomed inside me. Unfolded. Spread.
"I'll be home."
Mom's stare was unrelenting. "Promise me, Min. I don't know where you . . . and on your birthday, again . . . but . . ." She trailed off. Neither of us wanted to go there.
Her voice firmed like it used to years ago. "I'd like for us to be together, come what may. Please, Melinda."
"I'll be home," I repeated. "I promise." One foot over the threshold.
She nodded gravely, retreating back into her elevator-sized bedroom.
The screen door slammed as I hurried down the lane.
2
It's my birthday.
I'm wearing a pink taffeta dress with purple bows, the most beautiful piece of clothing I've ever owned. I love it. I want to dance around in front of our bathroom mirror, but Mom has a surprise for me. So we take a seemingly endless walk to the fairgrounds, at the edge of town, near the canyon.
My feet begin to hurt, but when we finally get there, it's so worth it.
A party. For ME. I squeal with excitement.
Mom leads me to a picnic table with a Mylar number eight balloon tied to one end. Thomas is there, and some other kids from school. Not all of them are my friends, but that's not her fault. I never tell Mom things like that. Only Thomas.
Big Things are going on across the field. Mom planned my party alongside a carnival that just pulled into town. I see rides. Games. A pony. Oh my God, a pony!
This is quickly becoming the best day of my life.
Mom is smiling, laughing as she passes out cups of juice and paper plates stacked with fruit. I love seeing her happy. Even as a brand-new eight-year-old, I know she normally isn't. I can tell by looking, just like I know Principal Myers doesn't like people staring at his leg, and that Thomas doesn't want to talk about his bruises.
Cake. Presents. A ride on the Tea Cups. Then I wait with Thomas while he barfs behind the Ring Toss tent. We both find it pretty funny. He hurries back to the picnic table to get a new shirt, but I don't follow.
Because the pony. It's RIGHT. THERE.
I race over to a bearded man who smells like leather. The pony's name is Princess, and I'm in love with her forever. I wish Mom was there to get a picture, but I'll tell her all about it when I'm done. When I ask her to buy Princess and keep her behind our trailer.
Too soon, my ride is over. I slip off the pony's back, hug her to death, and then skip back toward the picnic table.
A man appears and walks beside me. I look up, curious. Is he one of Mom's friends?
The man looks down at me. He's wearing a black suit, shiny black boots, and sunglasses.
Yes, he's a friend of my mother's. She's been looking for me.
And out of nowhere, cotton candy!
I take it with a squeal and chomp a mouthful, my free hand grabbing his automatically. The man misses a step, stumbling on nothing but flattened grass, but I don't tease him for clumsiness. In the fading light, he leads me across the field, toward a knot of trees overlooking the canyon.
I ask where we're going, sugar coating my lips and glazing my eyes.
To meet my mother. She has another surprise.
We reach the trees and weave through their round trunks, coming to the edge of the ravine. I stare down at the rapids, way far below. I've never been so close to the edge before.
The man breathes extra deep, then goes still. I can tell he's tense and wonder why.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
He releases his grip. "I'm sorry."
I barely feel the push. Don't know what's happening.
I fall, not making a sound.