Dark Corners

Dark Corners

A Collection of Short Works

By Kelsi Summers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2015 Kelsi SummersSmashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book

remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before . . .

—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven”

Contents

1. Be Still

2. Company

3. Abraham’s Daughter

4. Dear Emily

5. Noelle Elaine Leonard

6. Together at Last

7. Winter

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my old fellow classmates for peer-reviewing the

stupid out of the first drafts of these stories. Another thank you goes to my creative writing

professor for telling me not to fear the dark corners, inspiring the name of this collection. The

final—huge—thank you goes to my friend and editor, Katie. I cannot thank you enough for

taking the time to edit these stories for nothing more than a handmade bracelet and my gratitude.

And of course, thank you all for taking a chance on a fledgling author. I hope you enjoy

Dark Corners.

Chapter 1

Be Still

The wind was quiet, still. Crickets chirped and frogs bellowed, but the lake itself was silent and

unmoving. The ripples had died before the sun had set, but he was still standing there, staring.

He couldn’t quite grasp the scene before him. He took it in with dispassionate eyes, wondering

how it was possible for everything to be so peaceful now—as though nothing had happened. He

couldn’t bring himself to leave. He didn’t think he would ever find this peace again. So he

stayed.

His presence was no longer disturbing. Before, the wildlife had been as silent as the

landscape; scared into burrows or trees, frightened by what was happening before them. It was as

though he was the only living thing left. It was unsettling. He wanted things to go back to

normal, to be like nothing had ever happened or changed. And gradually, the owl started hooting

again, the crickets began to chirp anew, and the soft plops of frogs jumping into the lake

resumed. It was as if they accepted these new circumstances, like they were saying it was okay.

And for the moment, he let himself believe it was. He believed that everything was okay,

that it would always be okay, that it was never anything other than okay. He thought this even as

he stared at the lake, at the place where the ripples broke apart. It became a mantra, the words

repeating in his head over and over again until they lost all meaning.

That seemed to be the way of things. Finding something, letting it consume you, reveling in

it . . . then it all begins to unravel. Loses it meaning. He wondered if he could find meaning

again. Wondered if he had utterly lost it, if she had taken it with her.

He turned his eyes away from the lake quickly. He couldn’t stand to look at the place where

the ripples broke. The lake threatened to consume him too; his breath coming out in rapid, low

gasps. The crickets began to sound sinister, the frogs accusatory. What had he done?

Suddenly, the stillness was no longer peaceful, it was death: cold, cruel, and unyielding. Its

tendrils crept in through his nostrils and mouth, snaking down his throat, choking him. It

strangled him from the inside out. It consumed him. He no longer felt connected to his limbs,

though he could still see them. He could see his knees as they buckled and the ground rose up to

meet him. He watched his arms reach out to stop the fall, his fingers splaying out in the grass,

then clutching it for support. He felt his body being dragged forward, moving steadily closer to

the small, lifeless mound where the ripples broke. He began to hear the hacking, choking noise

that was all too familiar now. His vision blurred as the sound continued.

It’s me. It’s coming from me.

But, try as he might, no air could force itself through as the lake took possession of him. He

could feel it writhing inside of him—pulling, clenching, shoving. Finally, the horrible noise

stopped. All noise stopped.

Gradually, the owl started hooting again, the crickets began to chirp, and the soft plop of

frogs jumping into the lake resumed. But this time, it fell on deaf ears.

Through it all, the lake remain unmoved. The ripples had died before the sun had set, and

the waves merely whispered against his searching hand.

Chapter 2

Company

She peeled back the curtain and peeked out the window—he was there. In the same place he was

every night. He didn’t turn to look at her, but she knew he was aware that she was watching him.

The moon cast a pallor on his white skin as he gazed up at it. A light breeze moved the tree

branches and lifted the dark hair away from his face. If a passerby didn’t know any better, they

might guess he was a Grecian statue—at one with the marble bench in the garden in her front

yard. She walked quietly through the house, her clothes making a rhythmic swoosh! as she

moved from her bedroom window, down the stairs, and across the yard. She didn’t bother with

shoes or slippers. It was summer and the grass was soft and thick beneath her feet.

“Hello, John.”

“Oh, hello, Angela.”

He looked at her—the same look he always gave her—and moved over as she walked

around the bench to sit next to him. It had become their routine. Both of them sat looking at the

moon, their feet dangling over the edge of the bench with their toes swinging back and forth over

the grass.

*

After Angela’s husband had died, the house seemed too big. She’d never lived alone before,

always had a roommate. After Cory’s death, any sound or movement sent her to the kitchen to

grab the largest knife. After a while, she bought a pocket knife and began to carry it around the

house with her. She was constantly checking, and double checking, all the windows and doors to

ensure they were locked.

At first, friends and family had asked constantly if they could stay with her “to help her

manage things.” But she resented their pitying eyes more than she was afraid of living alone.

Eventually, they stopped asking. Eventually, they had even stopped calling. She was sure they

were worried about her; she’d been on sabbatical from the university for almost four months

with only half-hearted thoughts of returning. But the one-word answers she always gave them

spurned extended attempts at comfort. She didn’t want anyone talking to her because they

thought she needed help. She wanted someone to talk to her because they wanted to. But it was

always the same look, the same tone. “How’ve you been doing?” She hated it. So Angela had

taken to ordering delivery, staying indoors, going shopping from one to four o’clock in the

morning to avoid anyone she knew. She only paid her cell phone bill because she reasoned if

someone happened to call and it was disconnected, they would feel obligated to stop by.

In the beginning, there had been a lot of people “just stopping by.” It started out okay

because they would bring food, which meant she didn’t have to go to the grocery store. But then

they stopped bringing food. In consequence, she stopped answering the door. That had been a of

couple months ago. Since then, she had not had a single person attempt to stop by or call. She

would receive the occasional text, but those were easy to handle. She would either ignore them,

or respond with a quick something so inquiring minds would know she was alive and that they

should keep leaving her alone. She’d been doing fine. Sure, her fridge was empty save for four

bottles of cheap chardonnay. Sure, she had a bit of insomnia. But what did everyone expect?

That she’d get over it and bounce right back to normal? Angela didn’t know what normal was,

not anymore.

Suddenly, one night as she was checking her bedroom window—halfway through one of the

wine bottles—she noticed a man sitting on the bench. Their bench.

His hair was black and straight; it shone as the wind blew strands of it around his face. His

skin was pale and his frame was rigid. He looked as though he was in his mid-thirties and was

wearing only a white T-shirt and blue jeans. No shoes. He was sitting on the bench in her garden,

staring up at the sky. Angela was sure she’d never met him before. She went to her nightstand to

grab her phone. As she started to dial 9-1-1, she looked out the window again and he was gone.

Unable to sleep afterward, she finished the bottle of chardonnay.

The next night, before she tried to sleep, she went through the routine again. Checking all

the windows and doors, and this time, closing all the curtains as well. Earlier in the evening,

Angela was certain she’d heard someone upstairs, but after stumbling her way up to the second

floor she couldn’t find anything. With her pocket knife and phone, she went to her bedroom

window last. The stranger was there. In the same position as yesterday. She stayed in the window

watching him as she dialed the police.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?” a tired voice asked.

Trying her best to push out the words coherently, she said, “Hel-lo, my name is Angela H-

Harper. I live at 2121 North Latimer. . . . There’s a strange man sitting in-in front of my house.

Last night, he was here too.”

“Okay, ma’am. Is the man doing anything?”

“No. Just sitting there.”

“Is your home secure?”

“Yes. All my windows and doors are locked.”

“Alright, Ms. Harper. A unit should be there within fifteen minutes to assist you.”

Throughout the phone call, the man had not moved. She closed the curtain on him and

waited downstairs for the police to arrive. It took them roughly twelve minutes. At that point, she

was considerably less coherent.

Angela answered the door for two officers. One, a stumpy, middle-aged officer with a scowl

and a comb over, the other a tall, rigid young woman with pixie cut hair. She thought the young

woman looked vaguely familiar.

“Hello, officers.”

“Hello, ma’am. You called in reporting a trespasser?” the stumpy one asked.

“You didn’t see him?” Angela answered confusedly; the garden and the bench were in direct

view from her driveway.

“No, we didn’t ma’am. Where did you say he was?”

“He was sitting right outside, on the bench in my garden.”

The officers backed up as Angela poked her head outside the doorframe to look over at the

bench. The man was gone.

“I swear, he was sitting right there when I called fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well, we’ll take a look around. Make sure he isn’t hiding somewhere nearby. What did he

look like?”

“He was average height, average build, pale, black-haired. White shirt, blue jeans. Oh. And

he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He was here last night too.” Each sentence came out faster than the

last as her breathing accelerated, the words all slurred and jumbled together.

The stumpy one looked at her strangely and said, “We’ll look and come back to let you

know if we find anything.”

Angela sat at her kitchen table, fingers drumming the surface at a pace that matched her

anxiety. She felt as though someone had laid a brick on her stomach.

The nerve of someone to sit on our bench, she thought. It had been Cory’s idea to put it there

so they could sit and look at the sky together. Day and night. Clouds during the day, the moon

and the stars at night. It had cost them half a month’s pay, and at first Angela had been furious

over the extravagance of it. She wouldn’t touch the thing for three weeks. But Cory had won her

over. Gradually making her go out there to sit next to him while he pointed out different

constellations or shapes in the clouds—the smells of the flowers surrounding them. It became

theirs.

Waiting, she sat at the table with a glass of wine in one hand and her pocket knife in the

other. Looking at all her windows and doors in turn, she expected to see the man’s pale face

staring back at her. When the knock echoed from her front door, Angela jerked and her chair

skidded across the floor, her knees hitting the bottom of the table. She made her way to the front

entrance, limping slightly.

Braced against the doorjamb, she opened the door enough to see the face of the stubby

officer. Opening it farther, she asked him, “Anything?”

“No, I’m sorry. We couldn’t find any trace of him.” The young officer was still walking

along the street.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“That’s alright, Officer. I’m sure you tried. Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night, ma’am. Don’t hesitate to call if you see him again.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

“And ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Might I suggest you . . . take it easy? I heard you stumbling around in there.” His eyes

focused on the pocket knife in her hand. “Make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“Sure, sure. Good night.” She shut the door quickly, more forcefully, than she’d intended.

Oops.

She lay in bed all night. Every time her eyes would start to close, she imagined the man was

looking at her from some dark corner. She spent most of the night staring at her ceiling straining

her ears for any sound that was amiss. The shadows of her room danced and swam with pale

faces and black eyes. She almost wished someone were with her. Almost. What she really

wanted was Cory. It was becoming one of the longest nights of her life, although certainly not

the longest.

*

The night Cory died, Angela had just arrived home from work when she realized her phone was

on silent. She had one missed call and voicemail.

“Hey there. It’s me. Just wanted to let you know I’m running a little late. Had to stop by . . .”

The next thing Angela heard was screeching, crashing, banging, crunching. She yelled

pointlessly into the phone. Noises went on as it kept recording, but she couldn’t distinguish one

sound from another. Eventually, the recording stopped. She dialed his number repeatedly, but

when a panicked voice finally answered, it wasn’t Cory’s.

“Hello? I’m sorry. I don’t know who this is . . . the person who owns this phone was in an

accident. I called 9-1-1 and I’m over here trying to help. He’s unconscious. I don’t know if he’s

breathing, I can’t tell . . .”

It was the hysterical voice of a woman. Angela asked where her husband was, then drove to

the freeway off-ramp five miles from their house. She arrived in time to see Cory loaded into the

back of an ambulance. She begged to ride beside him, but the technician insisted that his

condition was critical and they needed to do work on him on the way to the hospital.

She waited for hours in the lobby. Wringing her hands, pacing back and forth. Her parents

were beside her, but she hardly noticed. Cory had no family left to notify, his parents had passed

shortly after he and Angela were married. The officers said that Cory was exiting the freeway

when another driver ran a red light and drove straight into him. Angela barely heard and didn’t

look at them. In that moment, she could hardly care what had caused the accident. When the

doctor told her they’d done everything they could, but Cory didn’t make it, her heart stopped and

then began beating so hard she thought she was having a heart attack. Her head swam and when

she woke up she was staring at the ceiling of a semi-private hospital room. Unmoving,

unblinking, morning eventually came, but she refused to speak to anyone who approached the

bed. Her parents wanted to help, but didn’t know how. She hadn’t been able to sleep right since.

*

Tonight, that feeling of complete loss and loneliness returned, and Angela sobbed.

In the morning, she didn’t open any windows or curtains. She watched cable and ordered

pizza. The last of her wine was gone, but there were other, stronger, options. She peeked out of

the windows occasionally, but the man was never there. Sometimes she thought there was a

figure at the edge of her vision, but she could never bring it into focus. By ten o’clock that night,

Angela had almost finished a fifth and wanted nothing more than to sleep. As she walked to the

window in the bedroom, a feeling of certainty came over her—the man would be there. She

moved the curtain, and he was. Sitting on the bench, looking as he had the two previous nights.

With a calm that surprised her, Angela dialed 9-1-1 again. She stayed at the window and

refused to look away until the police saw him. When the cruiser pulled up, the officers from the

night before got out. They had their flashlights and were sweeping them around the front of the

house, the yard, the garden. As they approached, the beam of the tall woman’s flashlight hit the

man directly on the back but he didn’t move and the officer gave no indication that she had seen

him. The next moment they pounded on her front door.

Moving quickly, she fumbled down the steps and threw the door open, startling the pudgy

officer and nearly making him fall.

“He’s right the—!” She had begun to shout and point when she realized he wasn’t there any

longer.

The male officer was not amused; he stared at her with a confused and irritated expression.

The female officer, however, looked at Angela curiously, then looked over to the bench.

“I swear, he was right there! You even flashed your light on him!”

“Hmmm . . . What did you say your name was, ma’am?” the young woman asked.

“Angela Harper.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be the widow of Cory Harper, would you?”

Shocked, Angela stammered, “Y-Yes, I . . . am. Why?”

The officer looked satisfied, like she had solved a complicated puzzle. “I don’t mean to

pry,” she said. “I was working the day of your late husband’s accident. I remember because it

was my first. How’ve you been doing? Have you been managing alright?”

Angela remembered her then. She didn’t appreciate the insinuation in the officer’s tone, but

her face was friendly so Angela merely replied, “Of course. Thank you for checking.” And

closed the door on both of them.

The next night the man was there as expected. This time, she didn’t bother calling the police.

She was afraid that they had started to think she was losing her grip on reality, or worse, having

drunken hallucinations. Instead, mustering her courage, Angela opened the window, and yelled:

“What do you think you’re doing here? Get off our . . . my bench! And leave me alone!”

The man didn’t move. He didn’t even turn his head. He kept staring straight up at the moon.

Angela began to suspect that maybe she was going crazy. Grabbing her knife and phone, she

walked slowly and carefully downstairs, then poked her head out the front door. The man either

did not hear, or chose to ignore, the sound of her footsteps as she walked halfway across the yard

with the knife extended toward him. She stopped.

“Leave! I have a knife. I will use it if you force me to.” As she said it, her voice wavered

and she knew he wouldn’t believe her. She couldn’t even hold her hand steady.

“Why bother with a knife? I’m not going to hurt you. And don’t worry, I’m not going

anywhere.” His voice was amiable and casual, like they were life-long friends. It unsettled her

deeply.

“Please, just leave. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

He finally turned to look at her and Angela saw for the first time a look that she would grow

to recognize. It was exasperated and reproachful, a look that chided her for keeping him waiting.

She was also struck by how attractive he was, and how clean, for someone she had believed to be

insane, possibly homeless. His irises were so dark they looked black. Then her vision swam and

he seemed to blur around the edges.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated.

“How do I know that?”

“Because I won’t. You should trust me.”

“Like hell I should. You’re practically stalking me.”

“No. You just happen to have the most beautiful view of the night sky from this bench.

That’s all.”

That much was true. The countless times she and Cory sat there and watched the sky played

over in Angela’s mind. It made her angry that this man was taking that away from her, tainting

those memories. Feeling hopeless, she assumed her only option was to go back into the house,

lock everything, and try to think of a way to get rid of him without anyone’s help. As she

reached for the doorknob, he said, “You could join me, you know. That would be nice.”

Angela replied in a low voice, raw with emotion. “How dare you.”

Not sparing the man another glance, she opened the door and slammed it closed. She spent a

second night crying and staring at her ceiling, wishing with everything that Cory were still with

her.

*

After that first confrontation, Angela spent a week depleting her reserves, unable to leave the

house, and trying to develop a plan to get rid of the man on her bench. She tried calling the

police twice more—they never found anything and recommended that Angela see someone who

could help her deal with her loss. She tried screaming at him from the bedroom window—the

neighbors grew scared of her and called in noise complaints. Finally, sick of feeling helpless,

Angela barged outside. She walked up to the man and demanded that he leave her alone because

the whole thing was driving her to insanity.

“You’re not crazy, Angela,” he replied softly.

“How do you know my name?”

“Please,” he said with that look. “Sit down. It’s been too long.”

“If I do, will you go away?”

“If you sit beside me, for the next four nights, and then decide you still want me to leave, I’ll

go. I promise.”

“Four nights? Try one.”

“You couldn’t possibly make an informed decision after one night.”

“Fine, two.”

He looked at Angela and a knowing smile broke across his face. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

He moved aside and she seated herself on the bench as far from him as she could.

After a few moments of quiet, she said, “So . . . what’s your name? Seeing as you seem to

know mine.”

“John.”

“What do you want to talk about, John?”

“We don’t have to talk.”

“You want to just sit here? In silence? Why bother having me here?”

“For the company. Don’t you want company, Angela?”

She didn’t answer that. Instead, she tried to stare at the moon and forget everything that was

happening around her. At first, the silence was uncomfortable and the world seemed to spin each

time she looked up. Then John said, “You know, you should take off your shoes. Feel the grass.

It’s part of the experience. It’ll help ground you.”

Startling herself, she listened and took the shoes off. Eventually, her feet skimming back and

forth across the blades of grass began to calm her. The silence became less oppressive, more

companionable. The world spun a little bit less.

When she and Cory would watch the sky, they would talk for hours. She was glad, in a way,

that sitting with John was so different. She didn’t feel that he pitied her; he wasn’t making her

talk about her problems. He sat there and let her be; she did the same in return. And when the

streaks of the coming dawn appeared in the sky, Angela left. John didn’t move.

Once inside the house, she crawled under the covers of her bed. Turning out the light, she

noticed with disbelief that she had left both her phone and her knife on the nightstand the whole

night. Then, despite the morning light, she drifted off to sleep.

After she awoke, she finished the last of her reserves. There wasn’t much left, but it didn’t

bother her. She wanted to have a clearer vision of the sky. And truly, she wasn’t sure how much

of what she remembered from the night before had happened. It all had a surreal quality in her

memory.

So at ten o’clock when she went outside to meet John on the bench, she was able to look at

him and comprehend the difference between him sitting on the bench and Cory sitting on the

bench. The two pictures in her mind were at total odds with one another. Cory had been slighter,

darker, and more restless. He could be still on the bench, but somehow it felt like he was in

motion. He would talk and talk. He hated silence. But John barely moved. He looked like a

statue. And he seemed to like silence more than anything. To Angela, the two were so unlike

each other that the moments couldn’t overlap. Cory couldn’t be erased from this spot, but John

wasn’t trying to claim it as his own. He was just there. Looking at the stars. Not asking Angela,

“How’ve you been doing?” He was simply the company she needed.

Chapter 3

Abraham’s Daughter

The girl moved unnoticed through the house of Abraham. The sound of her mother kneading

dough was loud in the unyielding, dim interior of her father’s home. He and her brother were

sitting on a mat on the earthen floor, reciting prayers. Their heads bent and lips moving quickly,

their words nearly silent. It was as though she was not there.

Not able to bear the heaviness inside her father’s walls, she slipped into the cool night.

Outside, the moon was full and bright, filling her with joy. She felt unrestrained—lighter as each

step carried her further away.

Far from the house, the girl looked over her shoulder; a pale yellow glow was cast from its

interior. The only noises were the faint bleating of the sheep and the rustling of grass. Turning

away, she continued to walk toward an outcrop of boulders bordering a shimmering, blackened

stream.

At its bank, she did not pause to lift the bottom of her robes but let them drag. As she

crossed the shallow water, her movement sent silver ripples across its surface. On the side

opposite her father’s house, she knelt next to the pile of rocks, displaced two, and reached into

the now open crevice. Her hand grasped wood and pulled it loose. Her bow. Exquisite, as it had

been when she had used it last. The wood curved gently and was strung with one sure band. She

gave the string a tug and let it snap back. The gentle twang sent chills of pleasure cascading up

the length of her spine. She reached back into the crevice to retrieve the arrows.

*

Abraham did not know his daughter possessed the bow and arrows. He never would, if she could

help it. He had given a similar set to Isaac as a gift, but Isaac had not cared for them. The girl had

wanted the bow, although this desire had been hidden from their father.

One day, Isaac and his sister were in the pastures. The boy held the bow and was half-

heartedly attempting to shoot birds from the branches of nearby trees. He had not managed to

shoot one yet. Each arrow sailed past its target as it jumped into the air, taking flight.

“Isaac, let me try!” his sister cried, exasperated.

“No! Girls are not allowed to use weapons!”

“Please Isaac? As a present? To me?”

“And what if Father finds out?”

“He will only find out if you tell him.”

“But what if he sees?”

“He won’t. He never pays attention to what I do.”

Isaac knew this was true. He also knew that their father had not given her a gift. Shrugging,

he offered his sister the bow and one arrow.

“If you must.”

She rushed to him, grabbed the arrow, and fitted it to the bow. It conformed to her hands,

bent to her will, as though it was an extension of her arm. Looking around, the girl spotted a bird

sitting in the branches of an olive tree. She took aim, and shot true. The children ran over as the

bird fell to the ground.

“It’s a dove!” Isaac shouted. “You killed a dove!”

His sister looked at the dove, then at the arrow protruding from its bloated belly. Pulling out

the arrow, she left the dove where it lay and wiped its blood off onto the grass. Isaac gaped at

her, astonished by her irreverence.

“I am going to tell Father!”

“No. You are not,” she said as she continued to casually clean the arrow.

“And why not?” Isaac demanded.

“Because you gave me the bow and arrow,” his sister replied simply.

She handed them back to Isaac, who appeared to be in argument with himself. But she knew

he would never tell their father. Isaac could not stand their father’s disapproval, and he could not

tell Abraham without incriminating himself. She left her brother and went to the stream, intent

on creating a weapon of her own.

The sun had beat down on her as she searched, her dark hair absorbing the heat and sweat—

but she did not stop. By evening, she had collected enough branches of the proper size to make a

bow and quiver of arrows for herself. Each day, she would come and sit on the rocks by the

stream to shape them. Soon, she had crafted a better set than her brother’s.

*

Isaac typically left his sister alone. He was their father’s favorite, and he knew it. But was he

truly the favorite if the other child received no favor at all? Favorite implies competition—there

was none. It was because of this Isaac felt guilty in his sister’s presence, and, although they were

twins, they could not have been more different.

Isaac was studious and devout like his father, his sister was unlike anyone in the family. She

was headstrong, but artfully so, hoping their father would not notice. She also rebelled against

any notion of what she should do or how she should behave. She only did the chores she was

obligated to in order to avoid attracting unwanted attention, then slipped away from their father’s

house and would not return until nightfall.

Isaac secretly admired her, but would never admit it. He dare not lose his father’s favor—it

was bought at a heavy price. The burden of Abraham’s expectations was great, and Isaac told

himself that by bearing it, he was sparing his sister; allowing her the freedom he could not have.

His sister never knew these things. What she knew was that Isaac was aware of her

transgressions and did not tell their father. For that, she was indebted to him.

*

This night, while Isaac prayed with their father, Abraham’s daughter headed for the small

mountain where she preferred to hunt. It was distant from the house, and she could see for miles

at its peak. It was rarely bright enough to travel to most nights, but tonight she could see

everything. Seeking quiet rather than game, she set down her bow and arrows and laid on the

giant stone platform at the very top of the mountain. The surface was cool against her skin,

slowly seeping through her robes. A deep stillness and sense of peace stole over her, as if this too

was emanating from the stone.

With dark, tangled hair pooling around her, she untied her robe, still wet and heavy from the

stream. She bathed in the moonlight. Reveling in her boldness, unrestrained laughter echoed

across the mountaintop. In this place, she was herself. In this place, she was free.

*

The next morning, Abraham and his son set out before dawn. His daughter, awakened by the

sound of their exit, was eager to be away from the suffocating walls in which their mother spent

her days. She hurriedly performed her morning duties. The sun began to rise bright and hot; the

horizon shone a rich red. Before her mother woke, she hurried to the stream to grab her bow and

arrows.

On the banks of the stream, the girl looked toward the mountain. A heavy silence lay over

the land; it unsettled her and her pulse quickened. Anxious to escape to the shaded slopes, she set

off at a hurried pace. But crossing the land was difficult. The air steadily grew warmer as the sun

continued to rise, and the girl was already becoming sluggish with exhaustion. At the base of the

mountain, she paused to give herself a chance to gather her breath. Taking to the side of the

mountain, she began to climb along the path worn from her persistent steps. She could not tell

for certain, but it looked as if there were tracks fresher than her own.

A growing sense of agitation began to take hold of her with each step. As she climbed, her

breath came in labored puffs and a low buzzing started in her ears. When she finally neared the

flat rock she had rested on the night before, she thought she could hear voices. Crouching low,

struggling to calm herself, she snuck to the bushes surrounding the small clearing at the summit.

It was overwhelmingly bright, and she could make out the voice of her father near the slab of

rock. He was speaking to someone, and the girl realized with a start that it was not her brother’s

voice that responded. The voice was deep and rich; it seemed to penetrate her entire body,

leaving a great sadness in its wake.

“Abraham, do you love your God?” the voice had asked.

“Yes, I do.” Her father’s voice was soft, but sure of itself.

“More than your most beloved son?” the voice persisted.

“More than anything in this world, or the next.”

“Than you must do what He has commanded of you.”

The words were less a demand than a dismissal; as if the speaker was fulfilling an obligation

and was certain Abraham would fulfill his own. The girl looked over the bush and saw her

brother Isaac lying on the rock. Next to him was their father, and in his hand was a sword.

Standing sentinel over the scene was an unfamiliar man; at least, he had the shape of a man. He

was taller than her father, and the girl quickly realized that he was the source of brightness. He

was both terrible and wonderful at the same time. His features were beautiful to the point of

severity. He seemed to be all of one color; his eyes, his skin, his hair all shone the same blinding

gold-white.

As she watched, the man extended a hand and touched the sword in her father’s grip, it

flared blisteringly white and then was still. She looked to her brother’s reaction and saw that all

color had drained from him. If not for the expression on his face, she would have thought him

dead. However, as Isaac had watched the exchange between Abraham and the man, his eyes had

widened and he had looked at his father with heartbreaking pain. But he would not disobey

Abraham. His sister knew this.

“Do it now!” the man shouted, shaking the mountaintop.

As her father raised the sword, the girl lunged from her hiding place.

“Stop!” she cried.

The men froze and turned to her.

“What is your name, child?” The words lashed out at her like the crack of a whip.

The girl flinched, but held her ground. Shoulders squared, feet planted, she raised her eyes to

the man’s, ignoring the tears that came.

“My father never gave me one,” she replied.

Dismissing the burning man, she turned to face her father. Abraham still held the sword

unwavering above his head as she raised her bow and arrow.

“You will let my brother go,” said the girl.

Stunned, Abraham yelled at his daughter, “How dare you defy your father?!”

But as Abraham looked at the girl, he realized he did not doubt that she would release the

arrow and take his life. The bow and arrow were steady in her grip. He could feel the tension in

her stance and intensity of her gaze. The tears that had run down her cheeks did not seem a sign

of weakness, but of strength. She had dared to look the angel in his eyes, a feat he had not even

managed. Abraham truly saw his daughter for the first time, and, in spite of himself, felt a

fleeting twinge of pride. He looked at Isaac then, awestruck by his sister, and at the angel, who

merely looked intrigued by the exchange between Abraham and his daughter. Abraham would

receive no sympathy from him.

“You know not what you witness here, child,” Abraham said.

“I know that if you kill Isaac, I will kill you,” she reasoned. “Which is more important to

you? The life of your son or the demand of your God?”

Abraham, forced between the command of his daughter and of his God, had only one

choice. Quickly, his heart tearing in two, he turned back to the platform and brought the sword

down in a swift arch. As the blade touched his son’s neck, his daughter’s arrow pierced him

through the back. Abraham collapsed at the feet of the angel, who looked in turn from the boy’s

head rolling toward the underbrush, to the man at his feet, to the young girl standing with her

bow at the ready—her hand reaching for another arrow. His mouth turned up at the corners as

wings exploded from him in a flash of light. Leaning down, he grabbed the bloodied blade and

leaped into the air. The girl blinked rapidly, fighting scorching pain, to keep him in her sight as

his shape receded in the distance.

After the angel had gone, she walked over to the rock, rubbing blackness from her eyes. She

looked down on her brother Isaac, unmoving, lying where their father commanded him. Blood

pooled around his body where her hair had been the night before. Kneeling, she pulled the arrow

from Abraham’s back and cleaned it on the grass nearby. She stood and watched the sun as it

moved across the sky, as the last of her brother and father’s lives ebbed away. On the outside she

was burning, inside—she felt nothing.

In time, the sun fell toward the horizon. Without a thought, she turned away and began her

descent along the path she knew by heart.

Chapter 4

Dear Emily,

You remember that one time we went swimming in Grandpa’s creek? Of course you do. That

was the day you got a leech stuck to your arm and screamed so loud the whole family came

running. You ran around flailing your arms, auburn hair flying, trying to dislodge the

bloodsucker, the whole time screaming, “Get it off!” Then you slipped on that rock and the leech

was no longer your biggest concern. All of a sudden, blood started pouring from your foot into

the muddy water, making it a nasty, rusted color. I looked up from the mess to see you staring at

me. Your face was deathly pale; all the blood seemed to be rushing down from your face into the

stagnant pool underneath you. Your freckles became garish against the pallor of your skin. You

stopped screaming and just stared at me—the leech still clinging hungrily—with tears flowing

silently over your cheeks into the creek, mixing with the rust-colored water.

I just sat there and stared back at you as Mom came over to pick you up and carry you back

to camp. I didn’t move the entire time. Even as you watched me from over Mom’s shoulder,

even as the blood continued to ooze from the cut, dripping slowly—leech still attached. I stayed,

your green eyes holding mine.

I could have gone back to camp and helped you somehow, but I was scared. Your eyes were

vacant, and pleading. I didn’t know what I could do to help you. It took me years to realize that

you didn’t actually need me to do anything, just be there. And I never was. It was the moment

that defined the future of our relationship and I didn’t even know it. All those years with you in

the hospital, fighting as the cancer sucked the life out of you, and I never realized until it was too

late. I was always too late. Now I’ll never have the chance to make it up to you.

Sometimes, I imagine myself grabbing the leech off you before you even realize it’s there

and I’m ashamed of myself. I’m ashamed because right before you saw it and screamed, I saw it.

But I didn’t want to touch it. So I let you sit there with the thing attached, and did nothing. I

would never do anything. Even years later, when I avoided your pleading eyes and you screamed

for me, I pretended I couldn’t hear you. But of course I heard you. I pretended I wasn’t there, but

of course I was there. I was always there, not wanting to look at you. I didn’t want to see what

you looked like while your life was truly draining away. As the cancer made itself known and

used you to sate its hunger.

After a while, I suspected you knew I was there, ignoring you. I imagined your eyes masked

over with accusations and a hurt so deep that it would engulf me and never let me go. I

convinced myself that you only wanted me there to see the pain I had been causing you, and I

couldn’t stand the thought of that either. I was a coward. I loved you. I love you now. But that

only made everything worse. How could I possibly treat you like that? Someone I loved.

Mom and Dad never made me see you. They talked about it a lot, though. They talked about

the way you’d look around the room when they came to visit, like you were trying to conjure me

there. That’s what made me come with them in the first place. I wanted to try. I did try. Every

time they came to visit you for half a year, I tried. I would sit in the lobby on those horrible

plastic chairs for hours, my head in my hands, berating myself for never having the strength to

go in. I wouldn’t eat for days afterward. Mom and Dad started to worry. I lost too much weight.

They said I was starting to look like you, so they stopped taking me. They stopped talking to me

about you, and I stopped listening to your screams—although, I’ve never stopped hearing them.

None of us could take it, and I made it worse for everyone. If I could have just been there for

you when you needed me, I would’ve saved everyone that added pain. It was horrible enough

that we were losing you, but we were losing me, too. And it was my fault.

I want you to know that I tried; I tried to be there when you needed me, tried to go into that

room. I tried to forgive myself for failing. Mom is always saying that you wouldn’t want me to

be upset. She says that you never blamed me for anything, that you weren’t bitter because I never

came. But I know she’s just lying.

Mom and Dad did take me to a psychiatrist. I’m sure they never told you, but they did. After

I stopped attempting to visit you, I still heard you screaming, still saw those pleading eyes from

that day in Grandpa’s creek. I could barely sleep. And when I did, all I had were nightmares of

those eyes in a sunken and shriveled version of your body. Mouth contorted, screaming at me in

agony. It was always my fault. It was my fault that you were sick, and it was my fault that you

were in pain. You couldn’t see me in the nightmares, but I could see you. That made it worse. I

kept trying to tell you that I was there, but you never heard me. It was the only time I was

actually there, and you never knew.

I still have those dreams. Only now, we both know you’re gone and you can see me. You

yell at me because I was never there for you when you were alive. My psychiatrist says that you

wouldn’t actually yell at me, that you’re “probably happier now than you ever were in real life.”

I don’t know how much of that I believe. I think I’d like to believe that you are somewhere

happy and beautiful and nice. Some place where there’s no pain. I would like to hope that there

is a place like that for people like you: the people who didn’t know anything good or beautiful or

happy when they were alive, the people that only knew pain and anguish. But I just can’t picture

it. The dreams always seem so real, and you certainly don’t look or sound any better than when

you were alive.

The last time I ever saw you, you were completely different than I had imagined. Sure, you

were skinny and frail. Breakable. But you were also incredibly breathtaking. It was hard for me

to believe you spent those years in the hospital. You looked more grown up, more peaceful than I

ever imagined. Then I realized how much they changed you to make you look like that. I realized

it wasn’t actually you in there. It was the way they wanted you to be. The way they thought you

should look. Pretty. At peace. Just resting. I wonder if they will do that to me too. I haven’t been

looking to great lately. But it’s not cancer that’s eating away at me. Mom has this worried look in

her eyes when she looks at me now. Dad doesn’t really come home. Not since you died. My

psychiatrist keeps messing with my medications and dosages. He keeps thinking if he can just

get the right combination, I’ll be normal. It’s like a puzzle for him, but he seems to have all the

wrong pieces. He’s not allowed to give up, though. I am.

I bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this now. Well, it started because my

psychiatrist told me it might help relieve my guilt if I finally confessed to you. As if you can

actually read this. All this letter has done is convince me of my guilt. I can see it now. It’s all laid

out in front of me. It’s just as real as you used to be. I wonder if my psychiatrist will hear about

this letter and feel guilt too. He shouldn’t. He was just trying to do his job. It’s not his fault. It’s

mine. But I promise, I’m going to make it up to you. I’m going to find a way. Wherever I do end

up, I’ll find some way. I promise I won’t leave your side ever again. I just need to see if I can

reach you somehow.

I know some people are going to call me selfish, but that’s not right. I’ve been selfish my

whole life, always running away from you. If I can make it up to you by running to you instead,

then that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I promise, I will never hide from you again.

Love forever,

Your Collin

Chapter 5

NOELLE ELAINE LEONARD

PART 1 OF RECORDED INTERVIEW

Date:- 03/24/2012

Duration:- 43 minutes

Location: Wisconsin Police Department

OFFICER: This interview is being tape recorded. I am Officer Jacobs and I work in the

Wisconsin Police Department. Please state your full name for the record.

NL: Noelle Elaine Leonard.

OFFICER: Okay, Ms. Leonard. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? How did you meet

Adam Connors?

NL: Oh . . . Well, the little red light on my dashboard told me it was time for an oil change. So I

went in for an oil change. I don’t like to have loose ends. They’re like wires in my brain that

keep sparking if I try to ignore them.

OFFICER: That’s a good quality in a lawyer.

NL: I suppose so.

OFFICER: So what did you do?

NL: I dropped off my keys with the snotty teenager at the car garage and left.

OFFICER: You didn’t speak to Mr. Connors? In your statement it says . . .

NL: I didn’t talk to him when I dropped my car off. I met him when I picked my car up.

OFFICER: Okay . . . so what did you do after you left the garage?

NL: Well, it was getting close to Christmas, so I walked around the square for a little while and

window shopped, hoping to get some ideas for presents. Then, I went to pick up my car after the

allotted time was up.

OFFICER: And then you saw . . .

NL: Adam. I was expecting to see the grumpy kid again. Instead, this mountain of a man stood

with his back to me behind the desk. I was glad he wasn’t facing me because I’m sure my eyes

were bugging out of my head. As you can see, I’m a small woman, barely five feet tall. Pretty

much everyone looks like a mountain. But Adam? He really was huge.

OFFICER: And this attracted you to him?

NL: Not at first. When he turned around, he was wiping his hands on a towel and wasn’t looking

at me. I took that moment to study him. He was gorgeous. Little strands of unruly dark hair fell

over his forehead. And he was solid. His straight, hard features like stone. More than anything

though, it was the way he moved. Slowly, so sure of himself. When he finally looked up his eyes

were the most glittering green I had ever seen. Under all the grease and grit, they shone out at

me. I imagined what he looked like underneath it all and I felt my face heat up, which made his

lips curve into a crooked grin. Not quite cocky, but almost.

OFFICER: Okay, I get it. Then what?

NL: He said “Good afternoon, ma’am,” with just a hint of southern twang. He had a deep

gravelly voice. Very sensual.

OFFICER: And you said?

NL: I said hello. He said, “What can I do for ya?” I told him I was there to pick up the keys to

my car. I couldn’t hold eye contact with him, and he seemed to find that amusing.

OFFICER: How so?

NL: He was smirking at me. Then he asked which keys belonged to me and I said the ones with

the Swiss Army Knife.

OFFICER: A Swiss Army Knife?

NL: Mhmm, my mother gave it to me when I went to college. You know, just in case.

OFFICER: Alright, then what happened?

NL: He grabbed my keys and said, “I guess it’s your lucky day then Noelle Leonard.” He’d read

my name off the little tag they’d stuck to my keychain. He said that I was their one-thousandth

customer and had just won a free oil change. He had this huge white smile that emphasized how

extra dirty the rest of him was.

OFFICER: Cute.

NL: I thought so. I knew he was messing with me and I said as much, then he goes, “Well, no.

Not really. But I’m serious about the free oil change.” He said it was on him, gave a little bow

and swept his arms across his massive body indicating the oil coating it. I laughed before I could

stop myself, and that made him look incredibly pleased with himself.

OFFICER: I thought you said he wasn’t cocky?

NL: He definitely toed the line. Does it matter?

OFFICER: Not particularly. Continue.

NL: Anyway. I grabbed my keys. My hands were laughably small compared to his—almost

childlike. I looked up to thank him and he said, “You have a good one now.” He said it kind of . .

. intense. The humor had drained out of his voice and his eyes. I stammered out a “You too,” and

stumbled out the door cursing myself for behaving like an idiot.

OFFICER: How so?

NL: Calling him out on his joke, stammering, stumbling. I’m not good at the whole flirting thing.

OFFICER: You would characterize that first interaction as flirting?

NL: Wouldn’t you?

OFFICER: . . . So would you say it was a mutual attraction from the beginning?

NL: I would say so, yes.

OFFICER: Okay, then what happened?

NL: I went to take the tag from the garage off my keychain and noticed it now said Adam

Connors (345) 555-8712 in small, choppy handwriting. I left it on.

OFFICER: You think he put it there hoping you would see it and call him?

NL: Why else?

PART 2 OF RECORDED INTERVIEW

Date: 03/24/2012

Duration:- 60 minutes

Location: Wisconsin Police Department

OFFICER: Hello again, Ms. Leonard.

NL: Hello.

OFFICER: Should we start where we left off?

NL: Sure. Where was that, again?

OFFICER: Well, you’d just met Mr. Connors and he’d given you his number. Did you call him?

NL: Yeah, I did. I waited a couple days first. Didn’t want to seem too eager.

OFFICER: Of course not. Did he answer?

NL: He did. I was so nervous my hands were shaking. I said, “Hi, it’s Noelle Leonard. I’m not

sure if you remember, but you gave me a free oil change the other day.” My voice came out high

and squeaky, like a tenth-grade cheerleader. Not the sultry, flirtatious tone I was going for. He

said, “I’m not likely to forget that, ma’am. I don’t give away oil changes everyday.” He said his

boss had chewed him out for it, and he’d be out of a job if he did it again. I said I was sorry to

hear that—and I actually was. I didn’t want to be the reason he was upset. But then Adam said,

“Don’t you worry about it, Miss Leonard.” Always so formal. “Yes, ma’am.” “Miss Leonard.” I

told him to call me Noelle. So naturally he answered, “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for ya?”

OFFICER: Ever the gentleman.

NL: Southern hospitality, I guessed. Then I started an embarrassing attempt to ask him out on a

date, but he interrupted me. He said, “How about this, Noelle. How about you and I go out this

Friday. Dinner, movie, on me.” They weren’t phrased as questions.

OFFICER: But you agreed?

NL: I was just relieved I didn’t have to ask.

OFFICER: I see. So tell me about your first date.

NL: Ah, well, he came to my apartment to pick me up and I was glad to see how good he

cleaned up. His black hair had a slight curl and he let it do its own thing. He had on faded and

fraying jeans with a white V-neck that emphasized every one of his muscles. It was impressive; I

felt like he could protect me. He still had dirt under his nails and in some of the creases, but I

liked it. It was so different from the polished, styled, and pampered men I was used to dating. He

took me to see some scary movie. We went out for pizza after and he pulled my chair out for me.

He paid. I thought the whole thing was a little cliché, but cute. When I told my mother she said I

was wasting my time. To her, I was past the age where flings were acceptable. She always

thought I should settle down with a doctor, or a businessman, or someone I worked with at the

law firm. But I was never attracted to those men. I dated a few, sure, but they seemed soft to me

somehow. Once, I’d been serious with a man from work. His name was Timothy Catrell. Tim.

He was the type of man my mother approved of.

OFFICER: What happened?

NL: With Tim?

OFFICER: Yes.

NL: We’d dated for over a year, but when he proposed I couldn’t stand the idea of marrying him.

So I said no. Fortunately for me, I was only forced to endure my mother’s disappointed scowl a

couple of times a year. We’re about thirteen hours apart, you see, so we didn’t visit each other

often.

OFFICER: So, are you saying you knew from the beginning that this relationship would be

serious?

NL: With Tim or with Adam?

OFFICER: With Adam.

NL: No, but it became serious.

OFFICER: And your mother disapproved from the start?

NL: Yes.

OFFICER: Mother’s intuition?

NL: Your point?

OFFICER: Nothing, simply curious. Continue.

NL: Well, frankly, Adam and I looked absolutely ridiculous together. We’d meet up for lunch

some days, and I’d catch people gawking at us. I knew what they were seeing. A burly, dirty man

in his work clothes. He was good looking, but dirty. He also moved with an unexpected grace for

his size. Then there was me. All five feet, 100 pounds, blonde waves, brown eyes, business

casual me. Even I would have gawked at us. But I think that was one of my favorite things about

our relationship. We were what the other one wasn’t.

OFFICER: And you never noticed anything off about him?

NL: I mean, looking back, I guess there were signs that he was a little unbalanced. But at the

time, I just took them for mild eccentricities. I thought they were endearing.

OFFICER: Can you give me any examples?

NL: Well, when we were walking in public, for instance, he would always walk on the side that

would block me from other people. It was protective, but not overly so. If he noticed some guy

giving me the eye, he would train his eyes on them until the other guy looked away. He was also

weirdly particular about certain things . . . like driving. I never drove. He always did.

OFFICER: Sounds a little possessive.

NL: To some, I suppose. But he always opened the car door, always paid, surprised me with

little notes or gifts. I took it all as some ingrained, southern-sense of gentlemanly manners.

OFFICER: Interesting. And where was Mr. Connors raised?

NL: Louisiana.

OFFICER: I see. So you began to see each other regularly, then what happened?

NL: About six months into our relationship, we had our first big fight. I’d been working on a

case for one of the firm’s important clients. I would be in my office from seven or eight in the

morning until well past midnight some days. Unfortunately, the other person working with me

was Tim. And to Adam’s chagrin, I’d been spending a lot of time with Tim. Phone calls, emails,

texts, late-night office sessions; all with Tim. I hadn’t noticed he’d been reaching a boiling point

because I’d been so wrapped up in work. Then, one night after an especially long day at the

office with Tim, Adam lost it.

OFFICER: Lost it? How?

NL: The minute I walked through the door he said, “Well, look who decided to come home.”

We’d been seeing each other for about six months and had swapped keys the month before. Had

even talked a little about moving in together. Still, I was surprised he was there waiting up for

me. I had told him I was coming home late. And that’s what I said to him. Then he goes, “How’s

that for a hello? What, don’t you want me here?” His voice was deceptively calm.

OFFICER: How did you respond?

NL: I told him that of course I wanted him there, I just didn’t want him to wait up for me

because we were both exhausted. And he said, “Oh, I bet you’re exhausted after spending yet

another night in the office.”

OFFICER: And you didn’t take that well.

NL: Not really, no. I realized the insinuation immediately. I told him he didn’t know what he

was talking about. “Please,” he said. “Cut the crap. We haven’t seen each other for more than

thirty minutes since we swapped keys. We’ve barely spoken on the phone. The only time you

text me is to tell me you’re working late again. With Tim.”

OFFICER: What did you say to that?

NL: I told him he was making something out of nothing and I asked him to drop it. For now. We

should just go to bed and talk about it after we got some sleep. He scoffed at me, saying that I

wasn’t even trying to deny it.

OFFICER: You didn’t deny it.

NL: The whole thing was beneath me. I don’t need to explain myself.

OFFICER: But were you having an affair with Tim?

NL: Of course not.

OFFICER: Did you say that to Mr. Connors?

NL: Like I said, I didn’t feel obligated to explain myself.

OFFICER: So what did you say to him?

NL: At that point I yelled.

OFFICER: Yelled?

NL: Yes, I yelled. I was tired and exasperated. “Dammit Adam!” I said. “I’ve been working for

the last month.” We were almost done, I told him. I was probably going to be busy for at least

another week, but then things would go back to normal. I begged him to just let us go to sleep;

we could talk it out in the morning. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, apparently, because he

stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. By the time he came to bed, I was

already passed out. The next morning I realized the mirror in my bathroom was shattered.

PART 3 OF RECORDED INTERVIEW

Date:- 03/24/2012

Duration:- 48 minutes

Location: Wisconsin Police Department

OFFICER: Sorry about that. Where were we? . . . Ah, yes. Your first fight with Mr. Connors.

You yelled, he stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. You woke up with a broken

mirror.

NL: That’s right. After that, it all deteriorated pretty rapidly. It seemed like every little thing

would make him jealous and set him off. Even after I was done with the case and spending more

time with him, he never seemed to calm back down. It was like a switch had been flipped. I

started to catch him going through my cell, my laptop. Hunting around in my pockets and purses.

This went on for a couple weeks before he suggested that I try to find another job.

OFFICER: And what was your response?

NL: No, obviously. I like my job. I wasn’t going to give it up because of his insecurity and petty

jealousy.

OFFICER: What was his reaction?

NL: Well, we had another fight. Worse than the last. He said I didn’t want to leave my job

because I couldn’t stay away from Tim. It was all very juvenile. He told me to come clean, to

stop lying to him. He wouldn’t give it up, so I asked him to leave.

OFFICER: Did he leave?

NL: Not at first. First, he looked at me like at me like I hadn’t spoken all. So, I said it again. I

said we clearly needed time apart. I told him I knew he had been going through my things, and I

couldn’t be with someone who didn’t trust me. That surprised him. He started to backpedal, tried

to deny it. He said he did trust me, he hadn’t been going through my things. He said he just

needed to hear me say it wasn’t true.

OFFICER: Did you?

NL: I told him to get out.

OFFICER: Why not just tell him what he needed to hear?

NL: . . . Stubbornness? Pride? You tell me.

OFFICER: . . . Okay, what happened after that?

NL: He left. And I tried to get my life back to normal. He would call or text, but I ignored it. I

wanted to give him space to think, and I wanted time to see how I felt. After I told my mom

about the fighting, Adam’s jealousy, how we were giving each other space, she decided to visit

to “make sure I was doing okay.” I knew what she really wanted was to keep me from seeing

Adam. So, she arrived in the evening, we ordered Chinese, watched TV. Spent the next day

shopping in the square where she argued with the shopkeepers over sale prices, and then went to

dinner.

OFFICER: What day did your mother come into town?

NL: It would have been . . . Thursday. Thursday evening.

OFFICER: How much time had passed since you’d stopped speaking to Mr. Connors?

NL: About a week, I guess.

OFFICER: And she was staying with you?

NL: Of course.

OFFICER: So what did you talk about over dinner?

NL: Well, life. My job. How she couldn’t get Dad to take his vitamins. How she had to keep a

pair of reading glasses in every room because she always lost them. You know. Finally, she

asked about Adam. I knew she’d been waiting to ask the question all day.

OFFICER: What question?

NL: “Have you spoken to Adam?”

OFFICER: Had you?

NL: No, and that’s what I told her. Then she said, “Oh, that’s too bad honey.” But she didn’t

sound like she thought it was too bad at all. I’m sure you know how mother’s can be.

OFFICER: Sure. Then what?

NL: She asked if I had been talking to Tim. I told her I had to speak with him almost every day

because of work. That made her happy, she smiled at me and reminded me that she had liked

Tim. I rolled my eyes at her and said, “I know, Mom. More than I did.” Then she rolled her eyes

at me and said I was being silly. She just wanted what was best for me, she said. Finally, the

waiter came over with the bill. I grabbed it before she could, and she made a fuss over me

paying. After, we headed back to my apartment.

OFFICER: And Mr. Connors was there?

NL: Yes. Since Adam and I weren’t on speaking terms, I can’t exactly say I was pleased to find

him sitting at my kitchen table. It wasn’t until that point that I realized he still had my key. I

never thought to get it back from him after he left that night. My mother turned to me, her

eyebrows raised, and then she said a cold hello to Adam. He responded, “Hello, Mrs. Leonard.”

Then she said, “Please, I’ve told you before. You can call me Evelyn.” She had said this before

—the one time they’d met; it was right after Adam and I had first started dating. But we all knew

she didn’t mean it. Adam said, “Yes, ma’am. Can I speak with Noelle alone?” My mother said

no, and assured me she would be right there in the living room. She turned on the TV—her idea

of privacy.

OFFICER: Sounds protective.

NL: She’s my mother.

OFFICER: You make her sound slightly . . . overbearing. Would you say you have a close

relationship with her? You said yourself you rarely saw each other.

NL: I would say I have a normal relationship with her. Isn’t it that way with most mothers and

daughters? We always complain that they nag too much, they like to say I told you so. They

always complain that we never follow advice. But . . . I know she would do anything for me.

And I would do anything for her.

OFFICER: Anything?

NL: Anything.

OFFICER: . . . I think that’s enough for today.

PART 4 OF RECORDED INTERVIEW

Date:- 03/25/2012

Duration:- 73 minutes

Location: Wisconsin Police Department

OFFICER: Good morning Miss Leonard, how are you today?

NL: I’ve been better.

OFFICER: I’m sure. We’re almost done here. Let’s get this over with shall we?

NL: Let’s. Where were we?

OFFICER: . . . You and your mother had just come home from dinner to find Mr. Connors in

your apartment.

NL: Of course. Well, after my mother turned on the TV, I turned to Adam and said, “What can I

do for ya?” Mimicking the first words he’d ever spoken to me. Perhaps that was too familiar

because he responded by saying that he missed me.

OFFICER: What did you say?

NL: I told him the truth. That I missed him too, but that it didn’t change anything. Unless he’d

come to apologize. Then he sputtered and said, “Me apologize? I was coming over to see if you

would finally confess and apologize to me!” He said the whole thing had gone on for long

enough. I told him I couldn’t agree more, and asked him to see things from my perspective. That

set him off. He started yelling. “No, Noelle. You cheated on me, and here I am. Ready to forgive

you and move on. You won’t even admit that you’re the one that did something wrong?” I

looked over at my mother and saw her shoulders tense up when she heard Adam’s tone. I shot

him a look and lowered my voice, hoping he would do the same.

OFFICER: What did you say back to him?

NL: I said, “Adam, would you listen to yourself? How could you know I was with him? I

haven’t been with him in over a year. I work with him! I’m not going to leave my job just

because you’re jealous of some ex-boyfriend.”

OFFICER: Then what happened?

NL: He kept yelling. “Work is a pathetic excuse! At least try to be original!” He said Tim wasn’t

just some ex, more like an ex-fiancé. I looked at my mother again and knew she wasn’t actually

watching the TV. I knew she was hearing everything. I turned back to Adam and told him I was

sick of it all. Beyond sick of it. I couldn’t keep having the same argument with him. I just wanted

him to leave. Then he said we wouldn’t keep having the same argument if I would stop

pretending nothing happened. He’d shoved away from the table and was standing over me at this

point. It was like he’d thrown everything into shadow. I’d always been aware of how big he was,

how could I not? But before I thought it was protective, now his size was menacing. My hands

started to shake.

OFFICER: Mr. Connors was standing over you? Yelling at you?

NL: Yes.

OFFICER: And your mother, Mrs. Leonard?

NL: She had stopped with the pretense of watching TV. She had gotten up and was standing just

inside the kitchen. She isn’t a tall woman either, and people say I look just like her when she was

my age, but she is much more intimidating when she’s angry than I am. And in that moment she

looked furious. She looked at Adam and said, “I think it’s time to end this conversation. Now.

You’ve had your say, and Noelle has had hers. If you didn’t come here to apologize, than you

need to get out of my daughter’s apartment.”

OFFICER: Your mother said this?

NL: Yes.

OFFICER: Mother’s protective instinct?

NL: To use another cliché, yes.

OFFICER: What was Mr. Connors reaction to that?

NL: He looked at my mother like she had horns growing out of her head. If I weren’t so mad, I

would’ve laughed. He’d never seen her like that before, but I had. Oddly enough, seeing her

stand up to him, it was the push I needed. I got out of my chair, forcing him to step back, and

told him to hand over the key to my apartment and leave. Then he became desperate. He said we

could still work through this; all I had to do was promise I would never cheat on him again. He

was glancing between my mother and I. We moved closer together and urged him toward the

door. He begged me not to make him leave. I said, “No, I’m done with this. Get out!” I held out

the key to his apartment, hoping he’d take the hint and give mine back. He didn’t. Instead, he

lunged and sent one of my kitchen chairs sailing through the living room where it bounced off

my bedroom door. It had barely missed my mother, but she didn’t even twitch. By the time I

turned back to face him again, he was gone.

OFFICER: He threw a chair through your apartment?

NL: That’s correct.

OFFICER: And it hit your bedroom door?

NL: Mhmm.

OFFICER: Then what happened?

NL: I was a little shaken, but determined. My mother and I had come up with a plan. We’d

gotten the number for a locksmith. I’d call my cell phone company in the morning to change

numbers, and I’d resolved myself to looking for a new apartment. Until I found one, my mother

was going to stay with me. I didn’t want to take the chance that he would show up unannounced

again. I didn’t even think about the possibility of him coming again that same night. But after I

went to bed and had been asleep for maybe an hour or so, I heard someone open my bedroom

door. “Mom?” I said, sitting up. I tried to make out the figure, but it was too dark. I could only

see a shadow, a huge shadow. Obviously too big to be my mother.

OFFICER: What did you do?

NL: Assuming it was Adam, I tried to talk to him. I said, “What’re you doing here? Do you have

any idea what time it is?” I was trying to sound strong, but my voice was coated in sleep. I

couldn’t hear anything from the other room so I asked, “Where’s my mom?” It came out

sounding pitiful.

OFFICER: And was it Mr. Connors?

NL: Yes. He said, “Shhh Noelle. Just go back to sleep.” Then he started to crawl into bed next to

me, fully clothed. I jumped out of bed and turned to face him. I told him if he didn’t leave, I was

going to call the police. He said I didn’t have to make it a big deal; he just couldn’t sleep without

me next to him. He told me to calm down and go back to bed. I refused and told him again that I

was going to call the police, I shouted for my mother. It was dark and still in the living room. I

glanced over at my nightstand where both my keys and my cell were sitting, and slowly made a

move to grab my phone. Adam noticed, jumped off the bed toward me, and pushed me up

against the wall. He had my arms pinned above my head with one hand and he was holding a

knife against my throat with the other. I hadn’t even realized he had a knife. Something warm

dripped onto my chest. I hadn’t managed to grab my cell phone, but I had grabbed hold of the tag

from the car garage. I had never taken it off my keys. I shouted at him: “What’re you doing?

Have you completely lost your mind?! Get off me!” I tried to be as intimidating as I could, but

his body had me completely caged in. I still didn’t know where my mom was. He whispered my

name and my gaze shifted from the knife to his eyes. Their crystalline green still sent a shock

through me. In the darkness, they were almost catlike. I said his name quietly in response. The

word had barely left my lips before his grip tightened and the pressure of the blade against my

throat intensified. That’s when I realized he wasn’t the only one with a knife.

OFFICER: He wasn’t?

NL: No, he wasn’t. I had the Swiss Army Knife keychain. I began desperately fumbling with it,

my hands still held above my head. Releasing the first blade I could, I began to jab at the hand

holding my wrists. He let go with a sharp gasp and dropped his knife. Before he realized what I

was doing, I took hold of his knife and began to move toward him. When he looked up from the

puncture marks on his hand, I was there. And I had stuck the knife in his side. As he fell forward,

I pulled it out and buried the blade in his back, right between his shoulder blades.

OFFICER: . . . So. That’s your story, Miss Leonard? Self-defense?

NL: Yes, Officer Jacobs. It is.

OFFICER: You’re telling me that you, five feet tall, 100 pound Miss Leonard, stabbed Mr.

Connors?

NL: Yes.

OFFICER: First, you stabbed him in the hand with a Swiss Army Knife, then you took his knife

and stabbed him in his side and in his back?

NL: That’s right.

OFFICER: On your own.

NL: On my own.

OFFICER: And your mother was where throughout this whole ordeal?

NL: On the couch in the living room.

OFFICER: She was there the whole time?

NL: That’s right.

OFFICER: The noise didn’t wake her?

NL: She’s a sound sleeper.

OFFICER: And your mother. She’s going to tell me the same thing?

NL: She is.

OFFICER: Okay, I guess that means we’re done here.

NL: I guess so.

Chapter 6

Together at Last

This street hadn’t been the target, but it was close enough. The fires spread and there was

nothing anyone could do. It was the same story she had been reading over and over for the past

three years. Too many hits, not enough resources. Rioters fought against those who were

supposed to serve and protect, and looters took advantage of the utter chaos. Wherever you went,

people were too afraid to ask for help—never knowing what they would receive in response. She

knew this might happen eventually. With so many other places up in smoke, could her

hometown remain untouched?

“Melanie, are you sure you can do this?” the officer whispered. She had almost forgotten he

was there.

*

After the announcement on the news, Melanie called her parents. The line was disconnected.

Without another thought, she was driving the thirteen hours to their house in Helena, Montana.

The town where she had grown up. It was dangerous to travel alone, but she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop. She dialed her parents’ number with shaking fingers the whole way, never getting

an answer. By the time she arrived at the nearest operating police station—thirty minutes outside

of town—she was frantic.

Desperate and forgetting any need for caution, she grabbed the arm of the first officer she

saw. He was a balding, middle-aged man sporting a beer gut.

“Excuse me, Officer. I’m Melanie, Melanie Carter. I need to find my parents.” The words

came out in short gasps, and the officer looked at her in shock.

“Melanie Carter?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

“It’s me, Jimmy Stanley. I go by Jim now. Officer Jim.”

As she focused on him, Melanie peeled the years off his face: the pain, sadness, and

exhaustion came off in layers. Slowly, she found the 12-year-old boy he’d been when they first

decided to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Her first boyfriend. Most of his blonde hair was gone,

only a thin layer remained, and his eyes were haunted by his years on the job; she could only

imagine what the last three years must have been like for him. Constantly on guard, waiting for

the next hit—hoping it wasn’t anywhere near his family. Everyone’s life was like that now. He

looked ten years older than she knew he was.

“Of course, Jimmy. I’m sorry, I mean, Officer Jim. How’ve you . . . Have you been out

there?”

“You can still call me Jimmy, Mel. And, yeah. I have. His eyes were glued to a small piece

of gravel between his shoes. His mom had lived just one street down from her parents, closer to

the impact zone.

“And?” she asked hopefully.

He just shook his head sadly in answer and opened the passenger door of his cruiser.

Melanie sank into the passenger seat while he got in and started the car. The moment he shifted

into drive, he started talking. Jimmy talked a lot when he was uncomfortable, Melanie recalled.

“You just never expect it to happen near you. You always suspect it might, but when it

actually does, it’s like . . . you never really thought it would happen. I always thought we’d be

safe somehow, moving back here. I can’t believe of all the places . . .”

He rambled on, not stopping once the entire drive, although Melanie barely responded with

more than a nod. He talked about the crews and how they hadn’t bothered with their town yet.

Not with others to get to first. He said he had been the one to find his mom and recover the body

from the wreckage. His eyes glazed over when he said he felt guilty for being relieved that it

wasn’t his wife and daughter. Melanie looked away, she couldn’t relate; her parents were her

only family. She’d been trying to make her way back toward them, but she could never seem to

get out of the life she’d started away from them. Her job, her apartment, her friends. Things you

couldn’t just pack up and take with you, things that seemed pointless now.

Droves of people had done just that, dropped everything, to be closer to their families.

Jimmy had done that. Now, she wished she had too. Now—when it was too late.

“Have you seen my parents’ house?” she asked then, watching Jimmy carefully through the

corner of her eye.

“I saw it.” He stared straight ahead, his expression told her nothing.

“Do you know if they were there?”

“I-I didn’t look that close, Mel. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I just—I just had to ask.”

He parked about a mile away from her old block and said they needed to walk the rest of the

way.

“The cruiser can’t handle the debris. . . . Can you handle this, Mel?” he asked after a

moment of hesitation.

“It doesn’t matter whether I can or not. I have to. I have to know.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’ll be right here with you.”

Heads bowed, they walked the rest of the way in silence. Both of them were quieted by the

heaviness of their thoughts, the devastation around them.

After a time, the metal street sign of Melanie’s youth came into view. It was bent to the

point where it should not have been standing, but the letters were still readable: HIGHLAND ST.

On the left, were the Arnolds, who used to invite her over for homemade ice cream in the

summer. Their in-ground pool was the only thing still intact; the house was a charred and broken

mess. A couple houses down and to the left was her best friend Brooke’s house. Brooke’s parents

had moved a few years ago, to a smaller place, but the old basketball hoop was still there.

Tarnished and burned, but there all the same.

Across the street from Brooke’s old house was her parents’.

As Melanie walked toward the house, she tripped and tried to grab the mailbox to steady

herself. It crumbled under her weight and she stumbled to the ground. The ashes fell around her

like snow. It didn’t resemble the home of her memories. It looked so much smaller. The fire had

consumed almost everything. Only parts of the framing stood guard around piles of wreckage:

the remaining evidence of her parents’ lives.

Jimmy offered her his hand, helping her upright again, and whispered, “Melanie, are you

sure you can do this?”

She had almost forgotten he was there. Nodding, she moved slowly toward the ruined

threshold where the front door used to stand.

Inside, Melanie began sifting gently through the rubble, hoping not to disturb anything. She

had to find them; she had to see for herself. She hadn’t thought of how they would look if she did

find them, but when she lifted up a burnt piece of wood in what had been the family room, she

knew. One of her parents was there. She collapsed next to the still form, unable to discern which

parent it was, and the scream that had been building since she first heard the news tore through

the air; because her parents had been home, because they hadn’t been together when they died,

because she had never called her mom back, because she hadn’t visited in months. She screamed

because she couldn’t cry.

Jimmy came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Mel. I’ll take you

back. We’ll get your parents taken care of.”

“No, wait. I have to find them both. I need them both!”

Looking into her eyes, Jimmy nodded, took his hand off her shoulder, and moved a step

back. He wasn’t going to fight her.

“If that’s what you need, you do it,” he said. “Just be careful. This is still a dangerous place

to be moving things around, even if the flames are out.”

Melanie got up and forced herself to move. She began searching where the stairs had stood,

the ones that lead to the bedrooms. She grabbed chunks of debris and tossed them, careful not to

hit the first body, but not caring that it was still hot and scorching her hands. Then, on a sheet of

metal, she found the other body. She could tell this one was her mother; the emerald stones still

managed to shine in her blackened gold wedding band. She imagined that her mom had been

coming down the stairs to watch TV with her dad.

Honey, what’s that actress’s name again? I recognize her voice from somewhere, she would

have said as she walked toward him. But she had never reached her husband’s side.

Grabbing the metal, Melanie began dragging her mother. Jimmy realized what she was

doing, walked around, and grabbed hold near her mother’s head. They carried the body and set

her down next to her husband. Melanie knelt beside her parents and wiped the soot off her

father’s wedding ring.

“Now they’re ready,” she said as she stood to face Jimmy.

As the two of them walked out of the house, Melanie took one final look over her shoulder

to the place where her parents rested. Together at last. Released, her tears left small trails in the

gray ash that had collected there.

Chapter 7

Winter

She glides across the frozen landscape almost unnoticeable, save her crimson lips. Her eyes the

color of ice with skin to match. Even her hair is a startling white-blonde. It’s the first frost,

foreshadowing a brutally long winter. Every color is muted compared to its former vibrancy. The

reds and yellows and oranges of autumn are dull and lusterless. The grass is a white-green haze

that stretches on and on.

She comes to a stop in front of a rose bush, its final, obstinate blossoms glazed over with a

thin layer of white. Cupping her fingers underneath, she cradles the largest in her hand and runs

her thumb along its frozen petals, melting the ice and leaving a trail of water droplets in the

wake. Her fingertips still carry remnants of Summer’s heat. Kneeling down, she pulls the rose

close to her face and exhales. A cloud of ice gathers and collects on the petals, freezing them

more solidly than before.

Eyebrows drawn together, she looks at the rose and the first rays of light glint off its surface

and bounce across her face. The corners of her mouth sink into a slight frown as she closes her

hand around the blossom. Disconnecting it from the stem; crushing it. Steam rises as the ice

transforms. When she opens her hand again, the rose is gone and a small, doleful pile of ash rests

in her palm. Rising from her crouched position, a soft sigh escapes her lips. She tips her hand as

a light breeze catches the ashes and steals them away from her. She watches their trajectory with

longing, wishing that she, too, were light enough for the wind to carry her away.

But she is tethered to the earth; her spirit becoming a heavy burden she can hardly bear. So

different from a few weeks before, even. The days passed quickly then—now they seem to drag

on forever. But this was no different from last year, or the year before that, or the year before

that. Summer lasts only for a few months; the gentle, carefree breeze, the dancing sunlight, the

eager grass always stretching taller . . .

Then, the cold creeps in, slowly spreading until it consumes her entirely. It follows her

wherever she goes.

The sedate pace of the metamorphosis is enough drive her mad. The repetitiveness of the

change—infuriating in its reliability; its sameness. But she never gets used to it. Each Autumn is

dying. Winter dead. As Spring, her spirits begin to lift, her soul slowly wakes. Summer rejoices.

Only to stop again shortly after.

Struggling out of these thoughts, she tilts her head up to the sky, squinting against the bright

rays of sunlight that, for all their mighty strength, cannot thaw her spirit. Exasperated, she

realizes the sun has risen to midday. Around her, the frost has melted to soft drops of dew. She’s

spent the better part of the day unmoving, trapped in her own thoughts. This was Winter.

Freezing her to the core, disconnecting her from the world around, weighing her down—body

and mind.

The wind, her only constant companion, seemed to try to comfort her. It was her partner

throughout: an old friend who is at one moment distant and stubborn, and at other times

comforting and yielding. It could breathe warmth into Winter or frost into Summer. It could

capture and propel her so that she might touch the farthest regions. Together they would change

the landscape. Together, she would change.

Today, the wind brushes gently against her skin, raising goose bumps and lifting her hair

slightly as she moves away from the rosebush. It shares some of the chill she’s begun to carry

with her. A hint of what’s to come, a warning that it wouldn’t be much longer now.

When she is fully frozen, it will be easier. Her mood will turn apathetic—much the same

way Winter storms roll across the land—no heed for anything in her path. She will forget her

resentments, her desires, and her cares. But in this moment, carrying the last dying embers of

Summer’s fire, these emotions are with her. She suffers as she watches the leaves shrivel and die.

The flowers attacked with ice, the cold soaking into the ground, deeper and deeper, to their roots

—choking them.

How is it possible to create it all, only to destroy it? Why bring it to life, revel in it, and then

condemn it? It was all so bitterly unfair. If only . . .

She stops the fugitive thought almost immediately. She learned long ago to never wallow in

the could or the should. She has too much time to devote to them, and they never benefit her. She

only does what she must.

She can sense the animals hiding from her approach. Some burrowing into the ground,

further than the ice will reach. Others go to different climates entirely. Seeking the warmth that

she would no longer provide them. It is such a lonely season. They flee from her as the last of her

own warmth is extinguished.

How long had she been wandering now? She couldn’t say. It might have been hours or

weeks for all she cared. She could hardly recall the last time she was aware of her path or

surroundings.

She comes to a stop, unmoving except for her head, which moves slowly to take in her

surroundings. She has no memory of coming to this place. Nighttime has overtaken the

landscape, and the bite of the wind invades her very core. The pale white-blue light of the moon

reflects off the surface of a nearby body of water. Water—stubborn, constantly moving—it was

one of the last to succumb to Winter’s chill. Ripples glitter across the lake’s surface, making the

rays of the moon come alive. There are no more leaves on the surrounding trees; no birds

perched on their branches. She does not hear the steady, bass croak of the frogs, nor the shrill

chirping of the crickets, only the quiet movements of the lake.

A wisp of a cloud moves purposefully across the sky toward the moon. It devours the stars

for a few moments, and then drifts away leaving them undisturbed. Its shadow falls on the lake

as it passes the moon, dimming the scene around her. The wind picks up speed; it gusts,

whipping her hair around her face. Wrapping her in a frigid embrace, it refuses to let her go.

The cold encompasses her on all sides. Pressing in on her. This was the worst part. Always

alone, never sure when it would happen or where. She receives no comfort as the last of the fire

inside her flickers.

Emotions overtake her as she realizes what’s happening; the strongest she has felt, is capable

of feeling. A mixture of ecstasy, regret, and desperation mars her countenance. She reaches

toward the sky, yearning, tilting her head back and raising her arms. Her hands open as if she

could grab hold of the moonlight and the wind. It is shockingly painful; the tiny flames are

willful and resistant. Wavering between life and death. It sends a shock through her, like a jolt to

her soul each time. Again and again, until . . . nothing.

A mere whisper remains in place of the feelings she had before. The passion, yearning,

bitterness, vitality. Those things are not Winter. Her arms slowly fall to her sides, her hands

close. Her expression is frozen in place, showing only what had been before. Turning her head

down and away from the sky, she lifts a hand to her face and tries to recognize the vestiges of the

emotions through touch. But it means nothing to her. Gradually, her features smooth into

indifference. Her lips—no longer red—are a pale, frosted blue. Snow drifts slowly toward the

ground, surrounding her. A pile of downy fluff is beginning to collect on her fingers, still resting

on her cheek. It doesn’t melt. The small flakes hold their perfect shapes. Each one different. Each

one the same. This is Winter.

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelsi Summers is a writer, wanderer, and humanitarian. She spends her days immersed in the

written word, volunteering, drinking tea, and playing fetch with her cat, Sparkles. In 2013, she

received a Bachelor of Science in journalism from Ohio University with a minor in English.

Kelsi loves to travel and recently camped her way across the US with her best friend and fiancé.

She now lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her fiancé—and the cat. You can visit her online at:

kelsileanne.wordpress.com