Page 12 of Snowman

Her eyes blinked once, in slow motion.

No? What does she mean?

I sat back on my heels, my mind racing. There was something I wasn't seeing, something they weren't telling me. All my life, I'd been the"crazy one,"the one no one believed. I'd learned to play my part, to keep my suspicions hidden behind the mask of the shy girl they thought I was. But now, the cracks in their perfect world were showing. Something was going on, something I couldn't just turn a blind eye to anymore. And this time, I wasn't going to pretend.

FIVE

BREE

The wooden table wasrough beneath my fingers, its surface scarred. Plates of golden pancakes sat between us, syrup pooling in sticky puddles around their edges. Strawberries sat piled high in a bowl, ruby-red skin glistening under the morning light next to a jar of honey that glittered like amber. I inched the plate across the table, the porcelain scratching softly against the wood and breaking the quiet. My stomach churned.

"Eat." My father's voice shattered the quiet as though it were a command rather than an invitation.

"I can't." My voice was thin, barely scraping above a whisper. "I'm allergic."

I dared meet his gaze. His eyes were hard, daring me to defy him.

His lips twitched, amusement curling in the corner of his mouth. "Allergic? That's bullshit."

I swallowed hard. "I am."

My hands shook as I grasped the edge of the table.

"Prove it," he barked, shoving the bowl of strawberries toward me.

Strawberries tumbled, one of them rolled out and bruised against the table. His laughter bubbled up, jagged, cutting through the still air.

I flinched as the sound rippled through me. Across the room, Mom stood as still as a shadow. The bruise under her eye had flowered into a deep plum, proving words she couldn't say. Her lips were pressed thin, her expression blank, but her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the counter.

"No!" I sprang up from my chair, which scraped along the floor with a screech.

Dad slammed his palms onto the table, rattling the plates and sending silverware clattering.

"Sit the fuck down!"

The force of his voice struck me like a physical blow. My knees buckled, and I fell back into the chair. My heart thundered in my chest, each beat a desperate plea to be free.

"If I eat this," I whispered, my voice quivering as I reached for the bowl, "I could die."

"Good." The word was low, his eyes seemed to narrow into blackened slits.

My throat tightened, and the words I'd been swallowing finally burst free. "Why do you hate me so much?"

For an instant, his lips parted, the sharp edge of his response poised to cut me down. Then came the knock—loud, insistent, like a hammer striking the front door.

The sudden sound snapped the tension in the room, and his head flinched to the door, his eyes darting to Mom. He dropped the napkin he'd been twisting in his fists and growled out, "This isn't over," as he stormed past me.

Another knock echoed before he reached the door. Two men stood on the threshold when he pulled it open.

The tall one was imposing, a big, burly man clad in a black overcoat strained on his shoulders. His chestnut brown hair flowed behind his head in a loose bun, resting at the nape of his neck, while a short beard, dark with the merest hint of silver shadowing a strong jaw reached the underside of his chin. Beneath his coat, a dark brown turtleneck stretched over a chest that looked as solid as granite.

The man beside him was shorter and leaner, his light brown hair cropped neatly above a face that was all sharp angles and tension. He wore a crisp suit, one of those that spoke'I might be an important person', with a paper folder tucked under his arm.

The tall man flashed his badge in the air, his deep voice carrying over the threshold.

"May we come in?" His eyes swept around the room, lingering on the table and faces around it.

Dad hesitated, hand stiffening on the doorframe. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and as he stepped aside, a hesitation seemed to quiver into his voice.

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