Page 94 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

I watched the buildings blur past the window and felt like I was disappearing one brick at a time.

After a while, I found my voice.It was so thin and quiet I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.

“How did you know we were there?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just drove.

Streetlight.Darkness.Streetlight.Darkness.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose.“Wait until we’re home,” he said.

Something in his voice made my stomach sink.

“Then I’ll tell you.”

* * *

We didn’t speak as we climbed the stairs.

The building was quiet, save for the familiar groan of pipes in the walls and the soft, ghostly click of someone’s radio a few floors up.I counted each step out of habit, not even realizing it until my leg gave out halfway to the landing.A jolt of pain shot through me like lightning, and I stumbled forward with a gasp.

Before I hit the steps, my father’s arm shot out and caught me.

I expected him to let go right away.Maybe scold me for not watching where I was going, but he didn’t.He kept his arm around my back, tight and steady, and with a grunt, he pulled my weight against his side and started walking again.

We climbed the rest of the way like that.Shoulder to shoulder.My breath shallow, and his steady and quiet.

At the top floor, he unlocked the apartment door.Everything exactly as it had always been.But to me, it felt like stumbling into heaven.

We took off our boots by the door, and I stood there blinking in the dark, so grateful to be home I thought I might throw up.

But then I remembered where I was.Who I was with.And what still hadn’t been said.

Would he ask?Would he already know?

My skin crawled with the fear of it.What if he told me to pack a bag?What if he dragged me back to the police himself and told them they’d been right?That I was a sick little pervert who deserved everything I got?

I made for the couch, just wanting to sit, to breathe…

“Kitchen,” he said.

I stopped.

His voice wasn’t loud.But it left no room for argument.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

My mouth went dry.I glanced back at him.He was already heading for the hall closet.Without a word, I turned and shuffled into the kitchen like I was walking to my execution.

I stood in the doorway a moment, my heart trying to break through my ribs.The kitchen was lit by a single overhead bulb.It buzzed faintly.Everything looked the same—table, stove, sink, knife rack…

My eyes locked on the blade.The sharp one.The one Papa used to slice up the Sunday roast.

It would be quick, I thought.One quick slice.No more questions.No more shame.

My fingers twitched.

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