Page 6 of A Shadow of Betrayal

Grabbing a blade, I quickly tuck it into the pocket of my jacket before rushing back out of the kitchen. I may be going crazy, but I won't be doing it unarmed.

Pushing my door open, I holler goodbye to Milo, though I know he's already asleep and doesn't care that I'm leaving, and shiver as the chilly morning air hits my skin. The storm from last night has cleared but dropped the temperature outside drastically enough to leave a thick frost blanketing the ground and trees. I briefly consider going back into the cabin for my winter coat, but I know that by afternoon, the temperature will rise enough that I won't want to wear it, and it will be an extra thing to carry as I bike home.

Grumbling to myself, I grab my bike that had fallen to the ground and hop on, trying to keep my eyes away from the spot where the Demon had attacked me last night. I don't have time to go over every detail of what happened a few hours ago, and if I don't put it out of my mind, I will obsess over the entire ordeal instead of working as I should. Demons and weird, half-dead men can wait until later. I have work I need to do.

Luckily, this isn't my first encounter with monsters, and pushing the crazy that is my life to the back of my mind is something I am now a master at.

Compartmentalizing my thoughts and emotions is almost second nature now. I never had someone to talk to about them, and I got used to it. But there are days I wish there was a person I could talk to and tell them of the nightmares that stalk my life, the monsters that haunt my dreams.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if my mom hadn't been sent away and if I had her to rely on, to talk to when I thought I was going crazy.

Like right now…

A burst of resentment toward my father fills me, and I shake my head as I bike down the hill into town. Dad wrote me off the moment he remarried, sending me to live with Grandpa at his new wife's behest right after they got back from their honeymoon. I only had a year left in high school, and the asshole made me relocate. He didn't bother attending my graduation and only sent a bouquet as condolence when Grandpa died.

Dad never cared for Grandpa, hating how the old man supported my mother's hysteria about the monsters. I think that's why he sent me to live here. It was supposed to be a punishment for never getting his daughter the help she needed before she married him. Instead, it ended up being a blessing for me.

The last time I talked to my father was on my eighteenth birthday. He called, saying he had mailed my birth certificate and all my important documents. It's been eight years, and I haven't bothered reaching out since.

Luckily, being sent to my grandpa was the best thing to happen to me. He welcomed me with open arms and taught me everything I know. For the first time in my young life, I lived every day to its fullest rather than just existing. He taught me about the rosemary and onyx stones and never once made me feel like a crazy person when I woke up screaming, as the echoing sharp pain of claws raking down my back sent me into a panic.

Sometimes I hate those scars; they are thick and ugly, and it took years for me to look into the mirror without shuddering in disgust. But right now… they are the only thing that helps ground me in the fact that I'm not completely crazy. Those three long lines that run from my shoulders down to my lower back are the only physical evidence I have that the monsters are real.

“I’m not crazy,” I breathe out as the crisp morning air licks at my cheeks. At least… not completely crazy.

For the millionth time, I wish I had someone I could trust to talk to about this. Loneliness and longing hit me square in the chest, and I blink back tears, willing my eyes to dry as I continue to pedal toward town.

A large shadow gliding between buildings catches my attention, and the hairs on my arms stand on end as I pick up my pace, refusing to look to my side to see what it is. “Not happening,” I mutter, proud that my voice doesn't shake as I direct my bike into the diner's cracked and bumpy parking lot. “I’m having a normal day!” I holler over my shoulder, hoping that it will magically make it happen if I say it out loud.

Jumping off my bike, I hook it to the rusty metal bike rack Mags bought just for me after my first bike was stolen. I started working here part-time as a senior in high school. Mags has always hired the young kids in town to give them something to do rather than get into trouble after school. Typically, the kids worked here until they graduated and either moved away for college or married.

Occasionally, you could find a cashier job at the local market or help in the small county library. Still, those jobs are rare and typically go to family members of the people already working there. The rest of the community farm and raise cattle, something I have never been interested in, so staying at the diner has been my only option unless I want to move, which I don’t. The small town of McCall, Idaho, has been my saving grace, and I’d hate to leave it behind.

Grabbing my keys from my pocket, I unlock the glass door of the diner and push into the familiar restaurant, flicking on the lights as I go. After I get the coffee brewing in the pot, the register balanced, and the chairs off the tables and situated, I yank out my phone and sigh. Mark won't be in for another fifteen minutes, and I need to get inventory done before he shows. He's always been a real jerk if I wait until he's here and get in his way while he cooks.

Grabbing my pen and clipboard, I walk into the kitchen and toward the large walk-in fridge to take inventory, trying to ignore my increasing headache while telling myself it is going to be a better day today.

* * *

“Another coffee, please,” Mr. McKenzie says, holding up the small white mug to gain my attention. Walking over, I pour him a cup and smile when he winks at me.

“How's your day going, Mr. McKenzie?” I ask when he nods in thanks and takes a deep drink of the bitter liquid.

“Meyer, how many times am I going to have to ask you to call me Dan?” he asks, a small smile curving under his thick blond mustache.

“At least once more,” I respond, answering the question like I have for the last eight years. I look over to where another customer is asking for more coffee and sigh, my feet aching and my empty stomach turning. It's about three in the afternoon, which means Lisa and Jill should be in soon to take over so I can go home. My head is pounding so badly that I actively have to try not to wince in pain whenever someone says something too loud next to me.

Mr. McKenzie chuckles and runs a hand down his mustache and beard, looking up at me with soft, kind eyes. In his late thirties, he’s a handsome enough man; his big body is muscled and tan from long hours on the farm. He stands well over six feet tall and has, on more than one occasion, asked me out on a date, and honestly, I’m running out of excuses to decline his advances.

Dan McKenzie is a kind, lovely man. I should want to go out with him; there is just no spark or interest whenever he's near me. Honestly, he reminds me of a young version of my grandpa, which only makes accepting his offer harder. He is one of the few people my grandpa liked in town, and he had him over for dinner several times before his passing. Often swapping stories about their days and sitting on the porch with a beer to talk late into the night. Mr. McKenzie’s own family died in a fire years ago, and Grandpa took him under his wing, so to speak, helping Dan with his farm when he couldn’t afford to hire help.

“So, I was wondering...” Mr. McKenzie starts when the customer that had asked for a coffee a moment ago glares at me and holds up his mug. I nod and look back at Dan as he wiggles in his seat, knowing he's about to ask me out again.

“Sorry,” I interrupt him, nodding to where the other customer sits glaring at us. “I have to go help him, or I’ll get in trouble,” I explain, holding up the coffeepot in front of me and smiling a little when Dan nods.

“Of course, of course! What time are you off? I could take you home or maybe out for dinner. Maybe I can drive behind you so you can drop off your truck at your house?” he suggests, and I mentally cringe. Dan has been the only person who has checked up on me since Grandpa died and has more than once taken me home on a rainy day or helped around the cabin when I needed a leak fixed. So I really don’t want to be mean, but the guy is just not taking the hint when I decline every one of his offers.

“I rode my bike,” I tell him quickly, watching his brows furrow.

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