Prologue

Wade– Age Ten

Like every week, the muffled shouting behind the closed bedroom door across the hall grows louder.

Their arguments always make my heart beat a little faster.

I don't like the way they scream at each other. Or the way he speaks to my mom. It makes her cry, and she stays in her room for days afterward.

I feel sad for her.

If I had a friend who made me sad, I wouldn't be friends with them. So why does she keep letting him back into the house? It confuses me to the point of curiosity.

Squashing my face against the oak-paneled wall, I close my left eye to peek through the minuscule hole I carved out in my secret hiding place at the top of the stairs.

It has the perfect view of my mom's bedroom door.

The perfect place to spy on whatever it is she does with the man who visits every week.

There are lots of cool hiding places in this huge house, but this one is my favorite.

Extra special because no one knows about it.

They couldn't. It's just me, my mom, and the housekeeper, Gretchen, who live in my grandfather's old house. It's a bit creepy and big. Pretty cool though, but it freaks me out.

My best friends, Ezra and Myles, told me to stop complaining. They said I was lucky to be living on one of the best streets in all of Edmonton. And even though my friends live on the same street, and we have so much fun together, it doesn't make me like this house anymore.

It's not like my other house. The one I remember living in before moving here.

I scratch my head in annoyance. Sometimes I get confused and think I may have dreamed it up.

But how could I dream up having a little sister and a dad?

I definitely remember having both of those.

Although maybe I dreamed them up too. More like wished for them, maybe.

Because if I had a sister and a dad, they'd be here. With me and my mom.

We'd be a family.

I scowl in confusion as I continue to spy through the peephole, remembering the hazy memories I have of the mysterious house I chased a sister around in. She had a sweet giggle and chubby cheeks, and I swear there was dad who had a smile the size of a moon crater and played football with me in the backyard until it was so dark, we couldn't see the ball anymore.

I remember those things the most from my dreams.

The last time I asked my mom about the white house from my memories, she told me I had a great imagination. I think she was lying because her left eye twitched. It always does that when she lies.

Maybe she is right though. Perhaps those two people have been in my dreams for so long that now I think of them as real.

Or it could be this house that makes me confused.

It's spooky.

Before he died, my grandfather, my mom's dad, once told me that ghosts lived here with us. I don't know if that's true because I stay inside my room when it gets dark. I don't ever want to find out.

A cool wind blows through the thin gap of the concealed door, making me shiver. If I think about ghosts wandering the halls of this house, I will permanently have the heebie-jeebies.

That's why I love my hideout. It's cozy and small, and far nicer, safer, than this stupid, oversized house I've never felt warm in ever since my grandfather died.

I discovered my hiding place when I tripped over the rug in the hall one day. I fell against the wood-paneled wall. It pushed open unexpectedly and the light from the hall shone through the gap into the secret space.

It was the day the exact same man, who my mom is still shouting at in her bedroom, was here too.

Their loud voices echo through the house as they continue to argue.

I wish I knew who he was.

Mom has never told me his name.

I asked Gretchen what his name is. Several times.

Every time I ask her, she pinches her mouth closed and draws an invisible line across it. A pat on the head is what follows with the same exasperated sentence. "Not for me to speculate, young man. That's none of our business." Then she cuddles me tight. Sometimes it feels like she's trying to make up for all the ones my mom doesn't give me. I'm not complaining. It feels nice and I will never tell her to stop. She smells of laundry detergent and she's all squishy, so it makes me feel like I'm being hugged by a giant marshmallow.

I'm glad Mom kept grandfather's housekeeper on when he died.

She's the best. And funny too.

Something my mom is not. I often wonder why she doesn't smile.

I wish I had my very own time machine so I could turn back time to discover the things I don't remember.

Maybe it would show me if my mom was ever happy because when she smiles, she's really pretty. Although she only seems to do that when the man across the hall visits.

I let out a huge sigh and drop my shoulders as I continue to stare out of the peephole.

It's always the same. The man arrives. He kisses her. With tongue. Yuck. That makes me want to puke, and I gag every time he does that. They go into her bedroom. It goes quiet for a bit. Some talking and moaning, which I try to block out. As much as I don't like it, we had sex ed at school last year, so I think I know what they are doing.

That makes me gag a bit more.

Double yuck.

Then the shouting begins. He shouts, she shouts back; he shouts louder then he leaves.

Next, she'll come out of her room, eyes red from crying, then demand Gretchen make her cocktails. That's why I try to sneak out of the house before things get too dark and gloomy and she has another of her roller-coaster mood swings.

I once used my calculator to work out how many of those she's had. My calculation? At least a gazillion.

She gets mean and calls me names when she's having a dark moment, which is what Gretchen calls them.

My mom is the opposite of Amelia Bennett, the sweetest, most beautiful girl in my year at school. I really like her. She's like sunshine.

I suddenly realize how eerily quiet the house is.

Glancing down, I check the time on my yellow and blue G-Shock sports watch Gretchen gave me for Christmas last year. It's so cool. I can even swim with it and wearing it makes me feel like a proper grown up. The part I love the most about it, it's in the colors of the hockey team I want to play for.

When I'm a famous hockey player, I'm going to thank Gretchen for being so nice to me and buy her a massive house, so she won't have to make cocktails for my mom anymore. I'll look after her the way she looks after me.

The time on my watch tells me I have five minutes before the man I don't know the name of leaves. It's the same time he leaves every week, which gives me time to sneak out of the house, grab my bike, and ride down to Ezra's. I don't want to stick around to hear more yelling.

The smell of freshly baked cookies drifts in through the small nook of my safe haven making my stomach growl in response. Gretchen's double chocolate ones are the best, and that's my signal to get the heck out of here. I'll grab some to take to Ezra's. He loves them as much as I do.

I take a final peek through the peephole to check the coast is clear and push the concealed door open. Crawling back out through the tiny space I used to fit through easily is becoming more and more of a problem as I'm getting older. I'm the tallest boy in my grade.

Pressing my hideaway door closed quietly, I tiptoe across the carpet, past my mom's bedroom. I flinch when I hear the handle turning, then the sound of the door being dragged against the carpet.

I look at my watch again. He's leaving early today.

I'm going to get into so much trouble. Mom has always made it very clear that I am not to be around when he is. Be invisible, Wade.

Running, I move fast toward the top of the stairs. If they see me, should I call her Miranda like I have to sometimes? Because she would call me more names if anyone found out she had a ten-year-old son. "I mean, I don't look old enough, do I, Wade?"

She does, though, look old enough, that is. She's very beautiful. My friends talk about her, call her a MILF… Mom I'd Like to F––insert the naughty word I shouldn't say.

If only they knew she's not so pretty on the inside. It's the parts my friends don't get to see. Unlike me. I know all the parts of her. Her heart is ugly. If it were good, she would hug and kiss me, and tell me she loved me. Wouldn't she?

In front of my friends, and their parents, she gives off perfect mom vibes, when in reality, her heart is black; scorched and torn around the edges like a piece of paper that's caught fire.

I run, trying to get away so I'm not seen. Head down, I watch my feet as they move faster down the first set of stairs and across the mid-landing, away from the man I now sense behind me.

"Wade." His deep voice booms through the tall stairway, causing me to stop in my tracks and spin around.

My heart flutters in my chest like a scared butterfly caught in a jelly jar.

Then he does something crazy.

He follows me and stands opposite me on the landing.

My mom is going to be really upset now.

"How do you know my name?" I can't believe he knows it. Does Mom talk about me to him?

As if he's seeing me for the first time. Which he is, but he's really looking, examining me like he's a doctor. His eyes crinkle around the edges as he cracks a smile. "Your mom told me."

He's got a friendly face and a huge mouth full of white straight teeth.

Ezra's mom is a dentist. I like it when she tells me how shiny my teeth look. I always make sure I brush them before I go around there just to hear her tell me that. It makes me feel special.

I wish my teeth were as shiny as the man's. They look like they are sparkling.

Seeming nervous, my mom appears at the top of the stairs and bounces her gaze back and forth between the two of us. Remaining silent, she fumbles to tie the bow of her silk dress around her waist.

Feeling brave, I say, "You know my name, but I don't know yours."

Yup, just dived face-first into the deep end of trouble. I'll face the wrath of my mother's sharp tongue when he leaves.

She tells me I'm too inquisitive. A curious mind will get you into trouble is what she says when I ask questions. Which is strange because my teacher, Miss. Sinclair told the class last week curiosity increases creativity. I like Miss. Sinclair.

The strange man—yet not so strange, because I see him every week—takes a step closer. We stand toe to toe, which forces my neck back to look up at him. He's as tall as a tree.

Even when he drops down to his knees, he's still very tall. Face to face, we stare at each other. Checking one another out.

"I do know your name. It's a very cool name you have, Wade. I like it."

I like my name too; he distracts me with his niceness and doesn't give me his name.

How annoying.

"You have the same color eyes as me." I point to them.

The man tucks his lips between his teeth with a small nod. "Lots of people have the same eye color."

I shake my head in denial. "Miss. Sinclair says they are unique and that she's never seen anyone with eyes like mine before. She called them cerulean. You have cerulean eyes too." They do look like mine. He's stupid if he can't see that.

I'm beginning to realize adults are a bit silly sometimes.

He snorts as if I amused him. I think he's mocking me. I don't like it.

"You are very smart, Wade."

I changed my mind. I like him.

"Top of the class," I tell him proudly.

"What's your favorite sport?" He eyes me suspiciously. "Do you think you can be smart and sporty?"

"Hockey." I'm awesome at hockey. I can't hide my smile. "I'm going to be both. The smartest hockey player on the ice."

The man, whose hair color is slightly lighter brown than mine, cocks his head to the side. "Is that so?"

"Yes." I beam back confidently. The sooner I'm drafted to an NHL team, the better. That's my plan. Getting out of this house, away from Miranda. I think she'll be happier without me in her life.

The smartly dressed man looks up the stairs at my mom, who is leaning casually against the banister.

My mouth drops open.

She's relaxed and smiling at me. Actual lips curved, teeth showing, smiling. I rub my hands into my eyeballs to check I'm not dreaming.

Once the blurred spots have faded, I realize I'm not.

She's actually smiling. Smiling, not sneering like she normally does.

It's real, making her look prettier.

"Well, would you listen to that, Miranda? Boy got game," the man says, jolting my gaze back to him.

When he looks back at me again, he's smiling too.

I don't know what I said to make them smile, but I like the feeling that I made them both happy.

A glint of something shiny catches my eye. "I like your pin." I point to the gold and enamel hockey stick on the lapel of his suit jacket.

"I like hockey," he says, brushing his fingertips over the badge.

"I'm going to play for an NHL team one day." I stand a little taller.

"Really? Who would you like to play for?"

"The Edmonton Eagles," I reply quickly. My heart feels huge when I say that out loud. I'll make Gretchen so proud of me.

"I've no doubt in my mind you will make that happen, Wade." He stands to full height and ruffles my hair. "Good meeting you, champ."

The man surprises me when he blows my mom a kiss, then gives her a wink before he runs down the stairs and out of the house, softly closing the door for a change rather than slamming it.

Well, that's new.

Mom walks down the stairs and I'm secretly praying it's not the calm before she turns into the devil himself. She's good at playing nice and then not so nice in the same way electricity goes off during a storm. It's on or off and nothing in between.

Surprising me, she keeps on walking. Past me, down the next set of stairs.

She startles me with her words. "He liked you, Wadey. I knew he would."

Wadey? Holy cow, she must be in a good mood. She's never called me Wadey.

"You should come out of your bedroom more often." Looking away again, she sings happily away to herself as she enters the good front room I'm not allowed in.

I stare wide eyed at the back of her, trying to figure out if my mom has been abducted by aliens.

It's the only explanation.

And that was the last time the man left the house without a screaming match.

The last time I heard her singing.

He stopped visiting after Mom threw a glass vase at him as he was running out of the house. It smashed the driver's side window of his new fancy black sports car.

I was fifteen.

She ignored me for weeks after.

I doubled down on my dream to become an NHL hockey player. Mom didn't care if I wasn't around and happily signed me up for extra hockey sessions and one-on-one training with a dedicated hockey coach. I played every game, came home, studied hard, and then studied more. Wanted to escape though. Had to.

To get away from her.

Miranda.

I sometimes wished the man would have come back. Maybe he would have made her sing again.

Smile perhaps.

I was wrong about that.

I was wrong about a lot of things.