Chapter One

Diana

I SMELLED SHIT . As soon as I got in from school. Was the toilet overflowing?

Dad was supposed to be home, and I called for him, not wanting to go check personally. No twelve-year-old girl wants to do that, and I was no exception. I sighed, wondering if he got called in to work. He was a mechanic, and his shop was always short-handed. I shucked my shoes in the hall closet and headed into the apartment.

Dad's silhouette was slumped in his chair, his back to me, asleep.

I assumed.

The smell was stronger now, and seemed to be coming from … him?

"Dad?" I held my breath as I crept closer, and there was something deep down inside me that felt wrong. You should go get a neighbor, that little voice in my head told me.

Why didn't I listen?

Better yet, why didn't I run away so I could stop everything that was going to happen to me?

Because clairvoyance isn't real. The supernatural and magic are fairy tales silly children who have never suffered believe in. I learned that the hard way.

And it all began as I stared at my father's half-open, unstaring eyes, open mouth, shit and piss-stained pants, and hands… Why do I remember the hands the most?

The blood already began to pool there, turning the fingers purple.

My dad died at thirty-eight from a heart attack.

And nothing was going to be the same.

"What will we do?" my mother wails, looking over the due bills and loans my dad somehow took out without her knowing.

How was he a hundred and seventy thousand dollars in debt? And that isn't counting mounting interest. What was he doing? My bet is on gambling, but nothing in his email or other personal effects has given Mom or I a hint. Thank God we don't have a house and we rent. That thing would be foreclosed on in a second.

"I could get a job," I offer tentatively. "Babysitting. Tutoring. Is a paper route still a thing?" I hate kids and teaching and don't know how to ride a bike, so none of those are exactly good options, but what can I do? We are, as Dad would have said, up Shit Creek and our paddles are broken.

Mom shakes her head. "I will figure it out. I have to."

Will you figure it out before we are homeless? I wonder, knowing our landlord won't continue being understanding due to grief. He's nice, but he's a businessman. And we need to pay rent. It's been five months and we are barely making all the bills, and rent has been late for two of those six months now.

At school, it is the only place I can escape these worries and my grief, throwing myself into classwork. I love school and learning. You could say I'm a nerd. But since I passed tests to get a scholarship to private school where at least half the students are expected to graduate and become doctors and lawyers, I'm not as bullied as I would be if I was in public school.

Principal Faulkner stops me one day on my way to class. "Miss Hill, how are you doing?"

I shrug and adjust my backpack. I haven't had a chance to put it away yet. "Just … getting by. I've seen the school counselor as you suggested, sir."

He nods. "Good, good. You know if you ever need a non-biased, non-medical ear, my door is always open."

I try to smile but I don't think my face changes. "Thank you, sir. I will take you up on that one day." Like Hell, I think as I wave goodbye. I barely tell the counselor the truth, why would I tell the principal? One hint of the financial trouble we are in, and someone is sure to call CPS on my mom. No way will I let that happen.

I should add, Mom has a job. She's a cook at a local mom and pop diner, and she's good at it. But the economy sucks, she gets no tips, and hours have been cut twice in the past year and a half. It's not her fault, and I know she's been trying to find another or a second job ever since the first hour cut.

I'm a kid. I shouldn't know this. Just like I shouldn't know how to use a textbook to stop a bullet from a school shooter. But that's what the world has come to so I have to try and be practical and just support my mom.

Once I am home from school, I go to the living room and Mom has a weird look on her face.

"What happened?" I ask immediately.

"I got a second job," she says, not sounding as excited as I would assume she'd be.

"That's great! Where?" I ask, giving her a hug she only half-heartedly returns. I have a bad feeling about this job, but I know better than to tell her not to take it.

"There's a man who comes into the restaurant; he needs an after-hours assistant. You know, paperwork and things he doesn't want to leave for the next day but the nine-to-fivers won't stay overtime to do," she explains.

And she's lying. I know she's lying. I can't say how, but I know. "Well, I guess I am old enough to stay home alone in the evenings," I say.

"It's not five nights, just three, but it will put us ahead," Mom says, and then she smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Thank you for working hard," I tell her. "And I will do anything you need to help. All the chores, whatever."

Mom looks at me with weary eyes. "I know. That's what I hate; you need to focus on being a child as long as you can. It goes away too quickly."

How do I tell her the child she knew died the day she found her father's stinky, soiled, rigor mortis-still corpse?