Page 18 of Crow

“Mmm.”

“Better get back into bed, then. Your father has a busy week, and I don’t want him getting whatever sickness you’ve brought home.”

Thanks for the care and compassion. Thanks for asking if I’m okay, or for just once, giving me a hug or doing anything remotely motherly. I feel so freaking wanted and cherished.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

The whole thing is fake, but my mom’s reaction still stings. It hurts worse when I head for the hallway to go back tomy room and see her already getting out a bottle of disinfectant from under the sink to spray down my chair, wiping furiously at the table.

I climb into bed and curl into a tight little ball, trying to focus on nothing more than my breathing before I have the breakdown of a century.

I hear my dad get up and listen to the hushed tones of my parents discussing me.

In order to calm myself, I start composing the letter that I’m going to leave behind for them when I walk out of here. I’ll wait until Sunday school starts, just to be sure that they aren’t going to come back home because they’ve forgotten something.

I go through, line by line. It’s best to be concise. Sounding defensive would only be perceived as a weakness. I have to make it clear that there is no way they can change my mind about this. There’s no point in getting emotional on paper, on in reality. It won’t do any good.

The morning wears on and the closer my parents come to walking out the door, the more it feels like a cage has been sprung free and I’m going to be released from a trap.

It’s so close. So. Freaking. Close.

And then, the doorbell rings.

I practically fly out bed, rushing to the window, but my room faces the backyard, not the front. I can’t go charging out of here or my parents will know that I’m not really sick. It could be anyone out there. People don’t often drop by on a Sunday morning because they know that my dad will be at the church, but it could definitely be one of his parishioners or even a neighbor.

It’s not.

My stomach drops down to my feet, and my heart pretty much leaves my body when my mom’s voice tears through the house as a high pitched screech. “Who on earth are those men and what do they want with us? Bill! Do something!”

It’s not funny, but I have to press my knuckles to my mouth to keep from laughing hysterically.

Okay, maybe it is pretty ironic that my mom can handle the sorts of people who come to food banks and homeless shelters, but she can’t deal with a little bit of leather? My dad has done inner city ministry work before, which involved brushing shoulders with some pretty rough people—gang members included.

I have no illusions that if Crow is out there with the help he was talking about bringing, they’re all wearing their club vests with all their patches, leaving little doubt as to who they are.

I race over to my closet and snatch out my backpack and the two duffel bags. They’re small, more like overnight or gym bags, and fit on each shoulder after I heft my backpack onto my back.

I should have done more than write that letter in my head.

I nearly gag from the nerves as I round the hallway and rush into the living room.

My parents are still debating with each other about what they should do.

“How are we supposed to get them to leave?” My mom moans. “They’re nothing but common thugs. Why on earth are they here?”

“They might be thugs, but if they’ve come to speak with me, I can’t turn them away. I don’t have time to do that this close to church.” My dad’s annoyance is painted over every word. “They’ll have to come back later.”

“Bill!” Mom gasps. “You can’t mean that! These are godless people.”

“Exactly why it’s important that they hear the word of the Lord.”

Ugh, now he’s going to get all sanctimonious? I’d like to point out that he can’t have it both ways, but it’s hardly the time. No time would be the right time for that.

I clear my throat. My parents spin around at the same time. My mom’s eyes widen at the sight of me with my bags. She does an instant calculation that amounts to me being packed and leaving with the burly men on the doorstep.

My dad crosses his arms, his brows crashing down over his eyes. He looks stern and strict, completely foreboding. “What’s going on, Tarynn Mary Anne?”

Oof. Not the dreaded full name drop.

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