Page 3 of Turmoil's Target

Something I don’t quite understand, but it fills me with dread all the same.

“Sera, poppet...” Mummy’s voice breaks. She clears her throat, tries again. “Your father, he... he isn’t coming home, dearest.”

I frown, not comprehending. “But why? Doesn’t he want to see us?”

A single tear escapes down Mummy’s porcelain cheek. “Of course he does, more than anything. But sometimes... sometimes people don’t have a choice in leaving us.”

She takes my small hands in hers, and I’m struck by how cold her fingers are.

Like she’s carved from ice.

“Seraphina, your father... Daddy... he’s passed away, poppet. He’s gone to Heaven, to be with the angels now.”

The words don’t make sense.

Passed away?

Heaven?

Angels?

Daddy can’t be an angel.

He’s my daddy!

He reads me bedtime stories and sneaks me biscuits when Mummy isn’t looking.

He’s warmth and laughter and strong arms that chase away the monsters under my bed.

“I don’t understand,” I whimper, hot tears blurring my vision. “Why would Daddy leave us? Why can’t he come home?”

“Oh, my darling girl.” Mummy pulls me into her arms as sobs wrack her slender frame. “He didn’t want to leave us. He loved us so very much. But sometimes... terrible things happen to the best of people. Inexplicable things. Things that can’t be undone.”

I cling to her, burying my face in her neck as the truth sinks in like jagged shards of glass.

Daddy’s gone.

He’s not lost.

He’s not hiding.

He’s gone, forever.

And no amount of wishing on stars or blowing out birthday candles will ever bring him back.

As Mummy rocks me, keening, an ember ignites deep in my shattered heart.

It smolders, feeding on grief and disbelief, growing into a blaze that will one day consume me.

The car glides to a stop before an opulent mansion, its gates yawning open like the maw of some great beast.

As the driver rounds the vehicle to open Mummy’s door, I gaze up at the sprawling estate through tear-blurred eyes, my hand still clutched in hers.

Grandfather emerges from the house, his salt-and-pepper hair gleaming under the Nevada sun.

He strides toward us, expensive loafers crunching on the gravel drive, his tailored suit impeccable despite the grief etching lines into his weathered face.

“Sally,” His deep baritone quavers on my mother’s name as he reaches for her, folding her into his embrace. “My dearest daughter. I am so deeply sorry.”

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