Page 12 of Under Pink Skies

Therewassomethingaboutbalancing the till that calmed me.

Imogen said it was my one truly obsessive trait—I was the chick that wanted all the bills facing the same way in the drawer, neatly organized.

I also gave out the nasty bills as change before digging into the small collection of crisp, new bills I’d collected over my years.

It was rare that I needed to make any cash deposits these days, but on this day, my drawer was a whole twenty dollars over my baseline. I was grateful that the Roadhouse had installed an ATM, which meant I didn’t have to keep excess cash on hand until I had time to drive all the way to Laketown to deposit it at the credit union.

The sharp crash of a bottle splintering against the outside of the store broke me out of my reverie.

“Fuck’s sake,” I said, shoving the cash and coins into the lock bag and fumbling for the key.Guess the deposit would have to wait.

Kevin left over an hour ago, so I was alone in the store. Because I wasn’t a completely terrible boss and he had a date with Kyrie tonight, I’d taken the closing responsibilities on myself. I quickly locked the deposit bag and shoved it into my purse, grabbing my keys.

Another crash of a glass bottle erupted in front of the store. My body flashed hot with rage.

“What the f—”

I opened the door, frantically following the sound, fully expecting to see some rowdy teenagers in town for the weekend having a little too much fun. Instead, my eyes landed on one man, with shaggy black hair, already clutching a fresh bottle in his hand.

My heart sank, and my jaw fell open in utter disbelief.

“Tilly,” the man moaned, and my calm facade cracked.

No, not in public. Please, God, no—

“Where’s my wife? Have you seen my wife?”

Anything but this, Lord, please—

“Dad,” I called, forcing myself to stay out of my head. I rushed over to him.

A small crowd gathered had across the street at the laundromat and past the crossroads near the Roadhouse. Malcolm Collins had been enough of a recluse these last few years that this outburst would no doubt make us the talk of the town. And knowing people were talking about us—more than they already did—was a distraction I didn’t need.

“Dad, it’s me. Can we please go inside?”

“Tilly?” he whirled towards me, still clutching the half-broken bottle he’d smashed against the brick wall. “Tilly, my love, is that you?”

Breathe, Abbie. Breathe.

“No, Dad, it’s me. It’s Abbie.”

“Son of a bitch,” he roared, chucking the broken bottle at my head. I ducked so the bottle missed hitting me square in the forehead, but it still nicked my cheek. I barely felt the sting, my mouth open in horror and embarrassment as the world around me slowed.

The other shoe always dropped. I knew that, and I’d still let myself get wrapped up in the way things were finally turning around. With the new job opportunity, I’d allowed myself grand visions of fixing everything that was wrong with Watford General, and my life.

“Dad, please,” I whispered, throwing my hands up in a peaceful gesture, trying my hardest to placate him without drawing further attention from whoever might be watching. “Let’s just go inside, okay? You need to sleep this off.”

“Where is she?” my father roared once more, this time turning away from me and gesturing to the gathering crowd across the street. “You’re all just going to stand there? Start looking! Where’s my wife? Where’s my wife?”

His voice broke on the last syllable, and he paced on the sidewalk, spiraling down into his panic and distress. My mind went fuzzy around the edges, and I found myself unable to think of my next move.

What do I do, Mom? What should I do?

I didn’t think of her often. I couldn’t think of her without getting swept up in the many emotions her death brought up for me.

A shout rose above my father’s tirade.

“Abbie!”

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