Devoted to the Blizzard: A romantic winter thriller (Tellure Hollow Book 3) (29 page)

"Hey, take it easy on him, Dani. He doesn't even know where we are," Dave said as he threw his elbow over the seat. His speech was slow with a hint of a laugh.

I nearly snapped at him but Fitz's movement caught my attention. As if it weighed a hundred pounds, his head swung around, chin rolling to his chest. "Here," he mumbled as he handed me a small bottle of eye drops.

"Lovely," I grumbled, reluctantly taking them. After a night of hotboxing in Gem's car, I knew my clothes reeked of weed. If my eyes weren't bloodshot, I might have plausible deniability. I dropped the stinging liquid into my eyes, wiping the drops away with the heel of my hand. I stared at Fitz for another minute, wanting to tear into him but knowing there was no point. I mumbled a goodbye to Gem and Dave in the front as I slid from the rusty Oldsmobile.

I smoothed my hair back and wrapped it in a tight bun. As I walked, I flapped my clothes in the damp breeze, hoping to air them out just a bit. The flashing red and white lights on the ambulance were mesmerizing. I tried not to get lost in the way they chased each other across the shitty peeling paint and torn siding of the trailer park. The loud engine idled, ready to take off in a split second.

I hated this trailer park. Thin walls, small lots, and trashy neighbors created a place where everyone was up each other's asses. I missed our old home.

The wooden stairs creaked as I put my full weight down. I considered sneaking in through my bedroom window, avoiding the whole drama inside. But doing that would only amplify Mom's rage once she caught me. The weathered, splintered railing under my hand felt brittle enough to snap in half... like me. I took a deep breath, held it long enough my lungs ached, and opened the squeaky screen door.

Two EMTs hunched over my dad's hospital bed, speaking in low, firm voices. Mom stood to the side, one hand to her mouth, elbow resting on the arm wrapped around her waist. Only the lights in the living room were on, allowing me to hide in the shadows. It made the whole scene look staged as if it were set up for me to witness. No one noticed me come in. I froze and watched in silence.

"Is he going to need to go back on the ventilator again?" Mom asked with a trembling voice.

A young medic, a handsome guy with short brown hair looked up to her. "Not sure yet. I think his lungs are filling with fluid."

Mom pressed her hand so hard against her face the skin turned white. She nodded and shifted on her feet.

My dad was a bear of a man. Six and a half feet tall, solid muscle, strong jaw, and sharp blue eyes. His mere presence commanded respect and attention. And when he was in full uniform, it was like G.I. Joe come to life. To me and Mom, he was a teddy bear. The guy who let me paint his nails and played along with my stuffed animal picnics. He could whip new soldiers into shape during the day and calm me after nightmares at night.

And now... he's a shell. A shadow of the man I once knew. He used to run 10K obstacle races and now he can't even walk to the bathroom. My father led men into a war zone, brave and confident. And there he was, drowning in a hospital bed.

I hated that they didn't speak to him. If he was still there, like they told me, then why didn't they explain to him what they were doing?

I'm not sure how long I stood staring at the scene. I was hypnotized by the contradiction of memories to the new reality in front of me. Some days I wondered if I could even consider him the same man. This person wasn't my real father. My real dad died over there. This isn't him...

I carefully shut the door and tried to move through the living room without drawing any attention to myself. Mom glanced up and started, her expression morphing from scared to surprised to angry.

"Where have you been?" she cried. The two EMTs purposely ignored us.

"Out," I muttered as I slipped behind her. She turned to grab my arm, but I dodged out of the way.

"Your dad's probably going to the hospital," she called out.

"Like that wasn't obvious." I slammed the door to my room. With the thin walls of the trailer, the whole house shook.

It might not seem like it, but I did care. I really did. No one wants to see their father in any pain or distress. But the panic had long worn off, turned into a tough callus. The ambulance was at our house so often, I didn't have the same reaction. There are only so many times you can pick at a wound before it turns into a scar, tougher and thicker than ever before. That's what it felt like, a protective scar. And the more Mom picked at it, the thicker it grew.

I fell onto my bed and opened my journal. There was one entry after my dad's accident, an unfinished page with tear-stained ink spots. Mostly, I read this journal to throw myself back into happier times, moments when the biggest worries I had in my life were test scores and dances.

With one earbud in, I listened to the EMTs work and my music at the same time.

"Mrs. Marsh, I'm definitely hearing fluid in his lungs. We've given him oxygen now, but we'd like to take him in. They can drain the fluid there and..."

"Right, yeah. We've been through this before. Okay, sure. Let me get my things and I'll follow behind."

I pushed myself to a cross legged position on the bed just as Mom barged into the room without knocking.

When I didn't turn to look at her, she sputtered a few times. "Take those damn headphones out," she said through gritted teeth.

I pulled the one out but still didn't meet her eye. "Dad has fluid in his lungs that needs to be drained. You're going to the hospital. I'll make sure I get to school tomorrow. I'll lock the door after you leave."

She blew air out of her nose as I covered every part of her lecture. "Where were you?"

"With friends." I was doing my best not to escalate the situation. She wanted to fight, to take her frustrations out on me at the worst possible moment.

"You could come to the hospital, you know. Your dad would probably appreciate having you there," she continued.

"I'm finishing my homework and then going to bed," I replied flatly.

We challenged each other in familiar ways. This old argument was like a dance or a rehearsed poker match. We played the cards in order. Each sentence was weeks' worth of arguments condensed into one bitter comment. "Where were you?" stood for, "You're never home. As if I don't have enough to worry about, you're running around doing God-knows what with God-knows who. Don't you think this family has had enough to deal with you have to go piling on even more?"

I played the friends card next, my own dig. No matter what she tried, she couldn't split me and Fitzy apart. He, Gem, and Dave were the only friends I had left who remotely cared what happened in my life. She'd ground me, I'd sneak out. She took my car away, Gem came to pick me up.

Dad was her trump card. Everything revolved around him and his recovery. Everything. Dinner, television, shopping, money, chores. For someone who claimed she bravely shouldered the burden, she brought it up a lot. You know who never complained about his responsibilities? Dad.

And finally, school was my ace in the hole, the one thing on which my therapist had sided with me. It was vital to my stability to remain in school, to concentrate on my learning. Immediately after the accident, I went from top of the class to bottom. I needed to do my homework. What could she say to that?

Our eyes finally met, and I nearly caved. Maybe I hadn't heard everything the medics had said to her. Maybe this time was serious. The painful silence stretched between us until she rested her hand on the doorknob.

"I'll have my phone on if you need anything. If we're not back by tomorrow morning, make sure you get to school."

Metal doors slammed shut outside. The low rumble of the ambulance engine disappeared into the distance. A few moments later, the front door closed and Mom drove away.

Only then did I let my guard down. Slumping against the cheap wood paneling at the side of my bed, I hugged my pillow and cried.

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Trapped with the Blizzard
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December 21st

“Another fire has turned deadly. A 19-year-old woman has been found dead after a nighttime blaze in Tellure Hollow started late last night. Jen Wachowicz is live at the scene but first, a look at the weather. Dan?”

The broadcast flipped to a middle-aged man with a middle-American accent. “Thank you, Hillary. As you can see, this storm is a monster and still hasn’t finished growing yet. We’ve been keeping an eye on it and the system seems to have shifted slightly. The jet stream is dipping down from the north a lot further than we originally expected while this swirl of moisture from the south is going to sit and rotate. This could mean one of two things.” The TV flashed with a graphic depicting two possible paths the storm could take. One showed the storm system shearing off to the north, missing us by hundreds of miles. The second, less likely track put the storm almost dead center on Tellure Hollow.

“The storm has the potential to dump two to three feet of snow in some locations,” the weatherman continued. “Other spots, mainly in the mountains, may see twice as much. There are a lot of variables at work with this storm, so there’s plenty of opportunity for this track to change. Anyone in this area,” he said, gesturing to a broad swath of the Rocky Mountains, “should keep an eye on this evolving situation.”

“Dan, what’s the timing of this storm?” Hillary asked.

“Well, Bing Crosby would be happy,” he said with a fake smile. “Timing for this storm in our area should mean we’ll have a very white Christmas. Back to you.”

“Thank you, Dan. As we reported at the top of the hour, the small mountain town of Tellure Hollow has been rocked by yet another fire, this time, with deadly consequences. We now go live to Jen at the scene. Jen?”

The young reporter had her finger in her ear, the bright camera lights washing out the layers of makeup plastered on her face. Wide-eyed, she jumped at the introduction. “Yes, thank you, Hillary. Residents are shocked by the latest development in the ‘Market Price Pyro’ arson spree. The charred remains of the building you see behind me is all that is left of a vacation rental. 19-year-old Rachel Swank, a Denver native, was staying in the cabin with five others. The teenage friends had minutes to escape when the fire broke out in the early morning hours.”

The TV cut to a prerecorded scene. A distressed young woman with tears streaking her face stood wrapped in a rough blanket. She stared at the cabin in disbelief as she spoke into the microphone. “My boyfriend smelled the smoke first. We were able to crawl out on the deck. By the time we realized Rachel wasn’t with us, it was… there was no way.”

The camera returned to Jen’s somber face. “Firemen have confirmed the smoke detectors were stripped of batteries prior to the fire. Because of the incendiary materials used to start the blaze, and the letter found pinned to a tree at the scene, police are pinning this fire on the same arsonist who has plagued the area for weeks. Residents are asked to remain vigilant and report any suspicious behavior.”

“I understand the police have not yet released the letter.”

“That’s right,” Jen nodded. “If this letter matches the pattern of the others, it will contain an estimated value of the burned property in dollars. Police have reason to…”

I turned off the TV, set the remote on the table with a trembling hand, and spoke without looking at Bryan. I was afraid if I did, the tiny hold over my emotions might crumble.