Page 36 of Snowman

The woman took a step back but refused to leave. Her face twisted in anger. Lashing out, she struck the side of his face, leaving a red trail of her palm behind. "You won't take Zara away from me!" she shouted. "Not again!"

I saw Mel running towards us, her bare feet kicking sand. She stopped beside me, her eyes going back and forth between Dad and the woman. "What the hell is happening?" she whispered, her voice low but urgent.

"I don't know," I whispered, the loudness of my heartbeat muddling my words. I turned back to the woman, who by now had streaks running down her face, her chest heaving as she stared at me like the answer to a question that only she knew. "I'm not Zara!" I yelled louder than I intended. "My name is Bree!"

Mel snorted, breaking the tension with a half-laugh. "You're a magnet for lunatics," she murmured in a teasing voice, holding her hand tightly in mine, pulling me away.

Mom was waiting for us at the bar, sitting under the shade of her wide-brimmed hat. She didn't even look up as we approached. Instead, she sipped her drink, as though nothing in the world could disturb her peace.

"What happened?" she asked coolly, her sunglasses reflecting the late morning sun.

"Some woman attacked Bree," Mel said, her voice light, free of the weight of it all.

Mom lowered her sunglasses enough to see me. "Are you okay?" she asked, softer.

"Yeah," I said, sinking into a chair beside her. My voice felt small and shaky. "She thought I was someone named Zara."

"Zara?" Mom repeated, her lips curling into a faint smile. Then she laughed—a quiet, dismissive laugh. "Well, that's a new one."

I forced a laugh, too, but it felt fragile like it might crack under its own weight. "Yeah. It is."

Mom smiled, then set her drink down and stood. "Let's go home," she said, adjusting her hat with a careless flick of her hand. But as she turned away, I could have sworn I heard her murmur, soft as the breeze. "Zara…"

I looked at Mel, trying to read her face for some sign of what she was thinking, but she didn't give anything away. It was just one of those moments that was too weighty, too weird to talk about.

The walk home was overbearingly quiet. Neither of us said a word. The only sounds were the dull slap of our sandals against the ground and the distant hum of waves breaking upon the shore. Every step was like stretching time and by the time we reached the apartment door, my chest was tight, still, I couldn't say a thing.

Mom turned the moment we stepped inside. Her eyes were sharp, her posture tense, like she already knew something had gone wrong.

"There are people out there," she started, her voice wasn't rising above low. "People who will never mean well, people who want to hurt you."

She took another step closer, her hand rising to rest against my cheek then Mel's, the touch was soft though the words weighed as rocks upon both of us.

"Now you understand why your dad and I are trying so hard to protect you," she said, turned, calling us upstairs without waiting for the response.

We were halfway up the stairs when the front door burst open, the force of it slamming against the wall. The sound made us all jump, and we turned to see Dad standing in the doorway. His face was scratched, and his chest heaved as though he'd been running. There was something wild in his eyes, something that made my stomach drop.

"We're leaving," he said, his voice raw. "Pack your things. We're leaving. Now."

The room was silent. Mom didn't ask why, didn't argue. She didn't even flinch. Her lips pressed into a tight line, and she gave a single, curt nod.

And that was all. Another trip cut short, another frantic, frenzied scramble to get packed up and go with no answers. It was always that way—his way, or no way. No explanations, no warnings. Just the command to go. I hated it, that feeling of powerlessness.What could I do?

We never had choices. We did what we were told, swept along in the storm of his decisions.

PRESENT DAY

A few minutes earlier, I had told the doctor my name, the same doctor who had failed to protect me from the police chief not so long ago. His silence was louder than my questions, his eyes heavy with the answers he had never given. All I wanted to ask was why, but the words seemed to evaporate in the sterile air from my mouth. No explanation, nothing.

A nurse came in clutching an old whitebricktelephone of the type that seemed to belong to ages past. She was really hesitant, her eyes darting between me and the white brick in her hand.

"Miss," she said, almost whispering. "I tried running your name through the system, and nothing came up. No file." Her voice hitched. "Detective Karlsson is on the line. I had to call him. I'm so sorry."

She held the phone out toward me, her hand extended. I stared at it, shaking my head. I didn't want to talk to him.

"Please, miss," she pressed. "It's important."

I took the phone, my hand stiff. I pressed it to my ear and snapped, "What?" It was sharp,bratty, but I didn't care.

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