Page 22 of Marked By Moonlight

She felt different—a stranger sitting in a chair grooved and worn from years of family dinners. A lifetime had passed since she last sat at her parents’ table. She felt as different on the inside as she looked on the outside.

The gun filling the wide pocket of her cargo pants—its weight a frightening, all-too-real reminder that she wasn’t the same person—had a lot to do with it. The gun was solid, a reassuring presence against her thigh. Strange. She had never imagined bringing a gun into her father’s house. Hell, she had never imaginedbuyinga gun, but that had been the outcome of her last run-in with Gideon March.

Next time she saw Gideon March, she would be ready.

Only Gideon had been surprisingly absent the last few days. Even so, she remained vigilant, carrying her gun on her at all times. Her gut told her this wasn’t over. He would be back. Like a tiger, he would pounce. Only Claire wasn’t a mouse. Not anymore. She would be ready. She would make certain he never made good on any of his threats.

She watched her father’s unfriendly face as he chewed. The sight reminded her of a cow working a cud between its teeth.

“Gravy?” Before she could protest, her mother leaned over her shoulder and covered her plate with the thick brown sauce.

“Sure,” Claire murmured, watching the congealed grease slither a muddy river over her meat and potatoes. She quickly tried to save her green beans and corn from contamination by scraping them out of range with her fork.

Ladle in hand, her mother slanted her head to get a better view of Claire’s eyes. “Very… interesting, but—” She paused, wrinkling her nose. “Couldn’t you have chosen a different shade? Silver is so… so—”

“Weird,” her father readily supplied, his voice hard.

Claire sighed, wishing the ophthalmologist had been more helpful. His diagnosis that her eyes were exceptionally healthy had failed to comfort her. He didn’t seem to understand that they weren’thereyes.

Her mother’s slight form flitted around the table like a bird, refilling bowls of steaming vegetables and her father’s sweet tea, having yet to take her own seat or eat a single bite of the food she had slaved over all day.

“Glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to have dinner with us,” her father grumbled as he swirled the meat on his fork into his mashed potatoes and gravy. He was a brawny man, not particularly tall, with a square frame, square face, and large, square hands. A dying breed—he earned his living by the sweat of his brow working oil rigs in the Gulf. The best thing about his job was that he was gone weeks, sometimes months, at a time. The worst thing? He always came home.

As he shoveled food into his mouth, Claire studied with detached interest those square hands, her father’s weapon of choice when she, or her mother, had ever gotten out of line. Fortunately for them, they had learned how to stay in line. Actual instances of physical abuse were rare in her memory, but those few had made a lasting impression. To this day, Claire still ducked when someone raised a hand too quickly. Old habits died hard.

Her mother refilled her glass, squeezing her shoulder in encouragement as she passed. Claire glanced appreciatively into her mother’s soft doe eyes. They had learned to communicate silently a long time ago. A touch. A look. A gesture. In her father’s presence, all three served as communication.

“I’m sorry about missing dinner last Sunday.” She decided to try to explain again. “I caught a bug at school—”

“You could have called.” The quickness with which his voice cut in, sharp as a whip, made her flinch. Another old habit.

Her mother eased into her chair, a wobbly smile on her lips as she removed her napkin from the table. “It’s all right, Mike. I don’t mind—”

“Don’t contradict me, Kathleen. You always stick up for her. Your precious little angel over there.” He jerked his head in Claire’s direction.

Her mother dipped her gaze and fiddled with the food on her plate but offered no further comment. She knew better. For that matter, so did Claire. She hadn’t perfected the art of invisibility for nothing, after all.

“You spent all day in there.” Her father jabbed his knife toward the kitchen, lips smacking around a mouthful of beef. “And Miss High-and-Mighty can’t even pick up a phone. But she sure as hell found the time to fix herself up like some kind of tramp.”

She recognized the stark misery in her mother’s face, the slump to her shoulders. She had seen it almost every day of her childhood. If not for her mother, Claire wouldn’t subject herself to these visits.

“Well. We’re glad you’re feeling better,” her mother ventured to say, darting an anxious glance at her husband, as if seeking permission to speak on his behalf.

He studied Claire beneath hooded eyes as he briskly mixed his beans and corn. “Go to the doctor?” he grumbled as though resenting his concern.

“Yes,” she answered, not exactly a lie. After all, she had spent that Friday evening in the emergency room. “I got some antibiotics and only missed work on Monday.”

Grudgingly, he nodded and returned his attention to his plate. “A woman your age shouldn’t be working at all—”

Claire bit her lip. She could recite the rest of this lecture from memory.

“You should be married.” He waved his fork at the empty seats surrounding the dining room table. “I should see some goddamn grandkids sitting in these chairs by now. Have you even once dated since that Brian guy jilted—”

“Mike,” her mother interrupted, gentle reproof in her voice as her worried gaze darted to Claire.

Her father threw his utensils down on his plate, the loud clatter on her mother’s china making her cringe. Leaning back in his chair, he tossed his hands up in the air. “What now, Kathleen? Can’t I speak my mind in my own damned house? What is she? Some goddamned piece of crystal that will break if I mention—”

“Stop yelling at her.” Claire’s words were barely audible, just a puff of air, a whisper of sound as her hand strangled a homemade roll into crumbs. Yet she might as well have shouted. Her mother gasped.

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