I want answers, but more than that I want him. Why is that so hard to admit? Why do I fight it? Why do I keep telling myself I’m strong and independent when my security blanket called Gunther proves otherwise? If I could do this alone, I would have walked out of here when Eddie took over and made it clear he wasn’t one to share information very freely. I would have walked right up to the gates of the Devil’s Breed after I met that whore and offered to do the same for a chance at learning something, getting a glimpse inside, and possibly finding Harris.

But I didn’t. I stayed with Gunter, telling myself I was being some fucking martyr to the cause, convincing myself that I was being clever by finding out what I needed to know without whoring myself to the Devil’s Breed for the truth. But that’s exactly what you’re doing here. I’m not clever—I’m a fool.

Tears run down the side of my nose, and over my lips to wet the filter of my cigarette. I pull in the last few drags and then drop it in the bucket on the back step. Standing here, alone, I’ve never felt more exposed. The mask I held up to even myself has been thrown aside, and I’m not sure I like the girl behind it. She’s scared, weak, and alone. She’s a fake. The clothes I’m wearing feel foreign, my tattoos taking on a whole other life. This isn’t my skin. This isn’t that girl who cowered by the fence as the house burned. This woman, she’s a stranger, and if I want to know her, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.

I drop to the step, tucking my face into my knees as a gentle breeze kicks up, tangling my hair around my shins. To go forward, I’m going to need to go back, and that means facing up to what really happened and forcing myself to look beyond the obvious to find the parts of that night I’ve kept buried from myself because it was just easier to go on that way.

Somewhere in my memories lies the key to why Harris did what he did, and I need to be brave enough to find that . . . on my own.

“Okay, honey. I’ll be up to see you soon.”

I turn and leave my parents alone with Harris, keeping my chin tucked down, my eyes to the floor. Their voices carry up the stairs behind me, joking, laughing, like they have so many times before. Everything’s sure starting out the same, so why am I worried?

An hour passes with me lying on my bed, a book propped up on the pillow as I read by the lamplight with my radio playing. Downstairs is quiet, and I’m comforted by the fact they’re probably all down there sharing a drink while they talk around the coffee table. It’s a scene I’ve walked in on plenty of times before: Mom leaning on Dad’s shoulder while Uncle Harris takes up the entire sofa—one end for him, and one end for his feet.

Only the calm doesn’t last long. Something thuds loudly against a wall and my father’s yelling, words I can’t make out over the woman’s voice belting out my speakers. I close the book I was reading, and set it under the lamp, sliding off my bed to cross the room to my radio. Halfway there I still, my heart a thousand hummingbirds beating against the walls of their cage—my mother is screaming.

Leaving the radio as is, I run to my closed bedroom door, halting as my fingers wrap around the handle. Harris told me to stay in here no matter what I heard. But is this what he meant? I don’t want to get in trouble for going down there when I shouldn’t, but I don’t want to stay up here when my mom’s hurt. I inch the door open, leaning my face against its hard edge as the argument continues.

“How long have you known, Cathy?” My father sounds sad, and for the better part, hurt.

Whatever my mom says is lost halfway between where they are, and myself, her words quieted by the walls of the house.

“Why?” Dad cries out. His next words are so vastly different from the last. Instead of pain and anguish, I hear the hate and determination in his tone. “You fucking bastard!”

There’s scraping of furniture, dull thuds, and my mother hollering at them to stop. My best guess is Dad and Harris are fighting, but about what? What could have best friends become such heated enemies after one night?

“No, no, no!” Mom’s shouting. “Don’t!”

A gun fires, and I lurch off the door. My already tested heart seizes, and then restarts in the race of its life. Every inch of me is on fire. My head pounds, and my limbs tingle.

“What have you done?” Harris yells.

There’s crying, but I can’t make out who it is. I want to say it’s Mom, but the sound is just so wrong. Another gun shot—another blow to my stressed heart. The crying has stopped, but somebody’s moaning, talking to himself.

It takes three tries for me to connect my shaking hand to the handle, two to get it open and myself through. I put a first foot on to the landing when heavy footsteps pound toward me. I should run, just like Harris told me to, but I’m frozen. Bile ebbs and flows in my throat, my stomach having a hard time deciding what to do as well.

Dark brown hair crests the steps, moving higher to reveal the hardened face I always thought to be my idea of what comfort is. I’ve trusted the eyes that are now fixed to me with my life. I’ve loved that gentle smile since I can remember. So why would now be any different?

“Hey, baby girl. You remember what I told you?” Harris comes to a stop before me, bending one knee so he’s slightly lower than I am and placing his huge hands on the outside of my shoulders. I look down into his face, searching it for an answer to the question I don’t need to ask.

“I remember.”

“Now’s time to run, okay? You go straight down those stairs, and you don’t look back. Can you do that for me?”

I nod rapidly, but I’m not so sure I can. My feet are lead weights, my legs useless sticks of chalk.

“Got anythin’ you wanna take with you?” He smiles, a hand moving to cup my cheek.

“I . . . I don’t think so. Where’s Mom?”

“Sleeping.” He smiles, but his eyes are telling me so much more, and it’s so much worse. “You run somewhere safe, baby girl, and I’ll come find you when the time’s right.”

What does he mean ‘somewhere safe’? Aren’t I safe with him?

Harris gives me a gentle push, coaxing me past him, and something kick starts in my legs. I take the stairs two at a time, finding he already has the front door open. I run, just like he told me to, but I don’t go far. I can’t. I need to see what he does; I need to see who’ll walk out of there.

Tucking myself into a ball, I hide between some of my mother’s flowery bushes and our front fence, watching the front door like a hawk. Hope wedges in my throat, a pill I can’t quite swallow as I wait to see if Mom will walk out okay. Or Dad. I’d take either of them, just to know they’re okay. I just want somebody who’ll hold me and make the confusion go away.

Time passes, and it seems nothing happens. I stare at our wooden home, wondering what Harris is doing inside. Is he trying to help my parents? A light catches my eye, and I know without a flicker of a doubt he’s doing no such thing. The evidence of what he’s been up to dances in the upstairs window—my parents’ room. Within minutes, smoke pours out the front door, and the crackle and pop as things ignite echoes out with the grey plume. Still, there’s no Mom, there’s no Dad, and there’s not even a Harris. I watch as my family home goes up in flames, I flinch as windows explode from the heat, and I cry as the first parts of my life begin to crumble under the pressure.

I’ve given up hope of ever seeing anyone I love again when a shadowy figure emerges in the doorway. He crawls, staying under the smoke, but I know without a doubt it’s Harris. Something is in his hand, something large that he’s leaning on as he moves. I shift my legs to approach him, but he stands, and the look on his face is nothing I’ve ever seen. I might be young, and I might not have experienced the world yet, but even a child can recognize the look of a broken man. As he walks past where I hide, I hold my breath to avoid being found. This man is a monster, a stranger, and how can I be sure he won’t change his mind and kill me too?