The Lazy-Days Motel smelled like garbage. While it was an old, rundown building with highly revolting accommodations located just a few miles off the highway, the Lazy-Days clerk allowed me to pay full out by cash, meaning that there was no electronic trace of my stay here. And, while not much could be said for the rest of the place, at least I had a roof over my head.

Of course, the roof only helped when I was actually in the motel, which wasn't often. I spent the majority of my time camped out in the woods behind my parents' house. I'd spent many summer days growing up traversing the forest with my brother and Daniel. There was a little creek that ran through the Northern corner of the lot, about a mile and a half from where my house was. It opened to a small lake that was home to several little nooks and crevices, unnoticeable unless you were inside of them looking out through the tall plants that covered their entrances.

I'd gone there, to the little caves, just the other day as dawn was breaking over the trees. The largest one, located in the southwest corner of the pond, had been the one we'd frequented the most as and, when I'd climbed inside, wading through the water first to do so, I'd found that it was mostly the same as I remembered. The cave itself hadn't changed but, while before it had been adorned with images from comic books and hand-drawn pictures, it now held images of me. There was one of the three of us, Wes, Daniel, and I, in the centre of the back wall and around it were tons of newspaper clippings. They'd been ripped and torn and held up by heavy tape and several showed evidence of water damage, but they were unmistakable.

The clippings traced kidnappings and missing persons reports. Some had large red drawn 'X's through the centres while others held question marks. It was clear what the two of them had been doing. Daniel and Wes had been looking for me. Seeing the numerous articles and old photos caused a wave of guilt and nausea to shoot through my stomach and I'd felt the need to leave before I was sick.

Aside from that little excursion, though, I'd stayed near the house, keeping an eye on my father and brother. I noticed several things:

One—they ordered take-out for every meal. It seemed that neither of them could bear cooking in the kitchen which had been my mother's single favourite room in the entire house.

Two—my father was sleeping on the couch. He'd hardly stepped foot into their bedroom since I'd arrived.

Three—Daniel was a near-constant in the house. He was almost always there. Even if Wes wasn't home and it was just my father present, Daniel would stop by and the two of them would spend time together.

Of everything I witnessed, that was the strangest to me. Growing up, Daniel had always been close to my family. We'd spent so much time together it was like we practically lived together, but for some reason, I hadn't expected his familial relations with my family to continue after I was gone. It was as if they'd lost a daughter but gained a second son.

At least one good thing came from me leaving.

Of the three days that I'd been watching the house, it had never been completely empty. Someone was always inside, whether it was Wes or my dad or even Daniel who had gone over one afternoon when both my brother and father were out and made dinner for them before leaving again.

And then, on the fourth day, the house was miraculously empty. Daniel and Wes had gone out for the day, towing baseball bats and gloves as they'd marched down the street to the park. Every so often, I could hear the crack of a ball hitting against a wooden bat and knew that they were otherwise occupied. I wasn't entirely sure where my dad had gone, but he'd pulled out of the drive in his truck about fifteen minutes after Wes had left and hadn't returned.

I waited another five minutes, heard another crack from the baseball diamond down the street, and broke away from the treeline. I moved quickly and lithely, darting towards the back door, and jiggling the doorknob. As I predicted, it was locked but I was able to pick the lock near-immediately using the old bobby-pin trick. I hadn't learned that one in school. No, Daniel had taught me that one in the fifth grade after I'd locked myself out of my house four days in a row. As such, I'd never been locked out of anywhere since.

The door to the house swung inwards and I stepped into my childhood home. I shut the door behind me with a barely-audible click. I'd walked straight into the living room. The old dark brown shaggy rug we'd had when I'd lived here still lied on the ground, but the old plaid couch and loveseat had been replaced with modern tan leather couches. The walls were still the same pale green that they'd been for years.

I moved into the room, up to the brown wooden cabinet that the television rested within. On the top of the cabinet there was a small collection of pictures. There were the few that had been there when I'd been growing up—showcasing family trips to Walt Disney World and Manhattan among others, but there were a few new additions. There were some of Wes at various sporting events and another of my parents smiling at camera while dancing at a banquet. The newest addition, though, had to be the picture of my mom. It was a simple headshot. She was mid-laugh, her eyes lit up and sparkling as my dad caught her with the camera. They'd probably put it up only a few days ago.

Beside that picture was one of me. It was the last year-book photo I'd taken, back when I was fourteen. I'd changed a lot in the four years that I'd been away. Gone was the baby fat that had made my cheeks nice and round and I'd finally gotten a decent haircut that framed my face much better than the mess I'd had before. And then there were those absolutely horrendous square-framed glasses. Those had been banished away with a simple laser-eye surgery courtesy of Tasha and Professor Monroe back in my sophomore year at Oaks.

I turned away from the pictures and walked deeper into the house, running my fingers across the backs of the couches as I did so, before passing into the kitchen. There had been no changes in here but for what appeared to be a new microwave. The granite counters were in the same state they'd always been in though the backsplash on the wall behind the countertops seemed to be suffering from discolouration.

I could still picture my mother in that room, baking up a storm, as Wes and I sat on the other side of the kitchen island, sticking our fingers into anything that she would allow. All the memories I had in this kitchen were fond ones.

A few moments later, I departed the room and embarked to head up the stairs. The third one from the bottom still creaked as it always had and, for the first time ever, I found the sound somewhat comforting instead of grating as it had always been before. I traced my fingers along the edge of the wall as I climbed all thirteen steps up to the second floor.

They'd repainted the walls. I noticed that immediately. Where they'd previously been a pale gray, they were now a light blue. It was a nice contrast to the wooden floors and I knew immediately that it was a colour my mother had picked out. Had my father been in charge of choosing the colour, it would have likely been brown.

I turned left, moving towards the side of the house where Wes's old room and mine were located. His was before mine and the door was already open. I stepped inside, acknowledging the dark blue walls and brown-framed bed. His desk was located in the corner and was covered with a pile of books and magazines. The books, I noted with interest, all seemed to relate to a history of some sort. The magazines ranged from comics to world issues and politics. The walls were decorated with the variety of sports memorabilia my brother had managed to collect over the years. There were signed jerseys, framed and hung up, as well as, posters for all of his favourite teams. He was still a die-hard Blackhawks fan, but it seemed as if the Baltimore Oriels had replaced the Boston Red Sox as his favourite baseball team.

He'd gotten a new bedspread, which was good because his old one had featured a deformed Pikachu from the time it'd gotten mangled in the dryer. Now, it was a striped blue-and-white pattern that laid neatly across the top of his bed. Beside the bed, on a little end-table was a single picture frame. I picked it up and stilled in surprise.

It was a picture of the two of us from when we were kids. We were each covered from head-to-toe in mud, but it was evident that neither of us minded. We grinned madly at the camera. It was an old enough picture that I hadn't yet had to wear glasses and my hair was in two pigtails.

I felt a wave of nostalgia shoot through me. Wes and I had never been the closest growing up. Sure, we had our moments of camaraderie but overall we got along best when we spent minimal time together. And so it was surprising to me that he'd kept this picture beside his bed. Maybe I was wrong and he'd only just pulled it out but somehow I knew that wasn't the case. This picture had been sitting here a long time, maybe the entire time I'd been away.

There was second picture on the table. It was unframed, just a glossy print lying face-up on the table. It was a picture of Wes and my mom at one of his baseball games. He, clad in a ball-cap and toting a worn, dirty uniform, seemed happily exhausted and she looked as if she'd been cheering the game away. Her eyes sparkled.

I tore my eyes away from her, feeling a lump in my throat, and put the picture down. I left the room and headed to the bedroom that was adjacent to Wes'.

Mine.

The door was shut but the handle turned easily in my palm. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was incredible how fast the memories hit me. The bright, horrible pink walls with the hand-painted daisies and wildflowers seemed almost painfully bright. The canopy bed I'd had was still the exact same and the white desk in the corner was showing an impressive layer of dust.

I could still remember the last day I'd spent in here. I'd been bawling my eyes out over something that was so incredibly stupid. The school had been hosting a Sadie Hawkins Dance where the girls asked the boys. I'd been going to ask Daniel, and not ask him in a "let's go as friends" way. Truth be told, I'd had a crush on Daniel for a long time but had never had the nerve to tell him that I liked him. And, on that day that I'd been going to ask him, Olivia Matta, my arch-nemesis at the time, though I hadn't even thought about her in the slightest in years, had gotten to Daniel before I could. And when he'd said yes, my chances with him had been shot out of the sky.

But that hadn't been the main reason I'd been bawling my eyes out. It'd been a contributing factor, of course, but not the primary reason. No, that had come later when Olivia and her friends cornered me in the girls' washroom, which was so stereotypically cliché that I would never have believed it had it not happened to me. It was there that Olivia remarked that the only reason she'd even asked Daniel was because she'd known about my crush on him. And then, to make matters worse, the little brat had stolen my favourite book—a collection of poetry that Daniel had gifted me for my eleventh birthday.

It had been an emotionally exhausting day, hence the tears, and when I'd come home to find an escape route out of the hellish little town I lived in, it was all I could do to say yes and get away.

I walked a little deeper into my old bedroom. It was abundantly clear that nothing had been changed. Everything was in the exact same spot I remembered leaving it. It was strange though, I'd lived in this house for nearly my entire life and yet it felt like a stranger's room. I couldn't imagine living here anymore. Couldn't imagine that this could have been my life. It was all so foreign to me. It truly felt as if the girl I'd used to be had died.

There were few pictures up around the room but they brought on waves of pain as my eyes skipped over them. Pictures of my parents together, birthday parties, Wes and I, and Daniel, looking so young with bright red chubby cheeks.

I smiled half-heartedly down at the assortment of photographs but left them where they sat. I walked to the window seat and looked outside to the clump of trees in the backyard that I'd been camping out in. I'd spent many hours in this little nook, reading and doing homework or chatting to friends, namely Daniel, on the phone. Deftly, I turned the latch on the window and watched as it swung open, allowing a soft breeze to whisk into the room. I let it wash over me, inhaling deeply.

It was at that moment that I heard the growling sound of an engine cut off from the front of the house. I froze for a second, listening, and then moved to shut the bedroom door. Unmistakeably, that had been the sound of my father's truck. I walked silently back to the window and pushed it open a little wider. I climbed out onto the roof and pulled the window shut behind me. There was no way for me to lock it but I doubted that would be a detail my father would catch if he were to come into this room anytime soon.

Carefully, I made my way over to the side of the roof so I could just barely see the front yard. I was able to catch a glimpse of my father's head as he climbed out of his truck, toting a few bags of groceries, and made for the front door. As he walked up the drive, I maneuvered my way to the lowest part of the roof on the side of the house that offered no view to the kitchen where my father was no doubt headed to deposit his bags. Once I heard the truck lock with a loud beep and the front door slam shut, I climbed over the rafter, hanging on with just my fingers, and then dropped lightly to the ground. It was about a six-foot drop, far enough for me to feel the shock of the fall shoot through my legs, but not far enough to cause injury.

Knowing that my father had a perfect view of the majority of the backyard from the kitchen, I knew that I couldn't possibly dart across it to get back to the forest. So, instead, I hopped the fence that led to the neighbour's yard and dashed across their backyard until I reached the dense outcropping of trees. Once there, I maneuvered my way back to my original spot until I could see my father wandering around the kitchen, stowing groceries away into the cupboards and refrigerator.

I crouched in the foliage, watching and waiting silently. About half an hour later, my brother arrived back at the house. As I looked on, the two of them started making dinner together, falling into a seasoned routine, as the cooked in the kitchen for the very first time since mom's funeral. I felt a sad smile creep its way onto my face and knew that it would be okay to leave now. They were going to be just fine. Sure, it would hurt for a long time. But they would be fine. The two of them were strong and would get through it a little less whole than they had been before but they would be okay.

And so, I resolved, this would be my last night in Oregon. I would spend this last night watching over my family and then, in the morning, I would buy a one-way plane ticket and head back to England.

*~*

The startling sound of a gunshot jolted me awake.

I jumped to my feet, nearly stumbling into a tree as I rushed. For a moment, I was groggily disoriented and then, all of a sudden, everything became abundantly sharp. My head snapped in the direction that the shot had come from and, for a second, I found myself hesitating. But the fear outweighed my desire to remain unnoticed and so I raced towards my old house where, I presumed, the sound had emerged.

The lights were off inside of the house but the moon was shining in through the windows and gave me just enough light to see the outlines of two men. I crept towards the backdoor, trying to decipher if the two figures belonged to my dad and Wes. That notion went out the window a second later when there was a second loud bang and a frighteningly bright flash of light that vanished not a second after it appeared.

A shout of pain.

A yell of fury.

And I was racing for the door.

I had no clue what I was doing. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered that I wasn't supposed to do make any sort of contact with my family. That I was supposed to be gone and out of their lives for good.

The more potent side of my brain scream at me that someone had just gotten shot inside of my house.

I was unarmed. I was unprepared. I had no clue what the hell was going on. And yet there I was, charging into the situation without a second thought, doing exactly what I'd been trained not to do.

I broke through the back doorway of the house. A burly form was sprinting around into the kitchen and dashing around to where the stairs led to the second floor. On the floor in front of me, two people were lying in pools of blood. One was the large man who'd busted down the door. There was a bullet hole through his head.

The other was my father. He was still alive, though barely, and gasping for breath. A puddle of red blood was formulating on the ground around him. He clutched at his chest and struggled to move. There was a grimace of pain on his face.

I ran to his side and collapsed beside him. My fingers flew to his chest, trying to stop the bleeding, but, holy shit, there was so much blood. It covered my fingers and soaked through my jeans, leaving dark red stains. "Dad!"

His closed eyes flew open at the sound of my voice. His pupils were dilated but focused on my face in almost a look of awe. "Melanie." My name was a breathy whisper on his lips. It was a shock that he recognized me at all. I knew I'd changed, knew I looked so different from the girl I'd been when I'd left, but there was nothing but clear recognition in his eyes.

"Oh god," I said. My voice was hardly stronger than a whimper. I lifted up his shirt, giving me a clear view of the wound on his chest. It was bleeding heavily, a small dark circle just to the left of where I knew his heart was. The blood pooled on the floor beneath. Dimly, I recognized the facts. He was going to die and there was nothing that could stop it. I knew that. But I didn't want to believe it. "Daddy."

He grimaced again, and the look was one of the most painful I'd ever seen. "Go," he said, struggling to get the word out. He shoved at me, trying to urge me away. "Not...safe. Get Wes a—and go." His eyes bored into mine forcefully and he slid something over to me. It was a handgun. The muzzle was still warm. The trigger was slick with blood. "...love you and Wes."

The man running upstairs.

Wes.

I jerked to my feet, not wanting to go but knowing that I had to. My dad wasn't dead but he was going to be soon and there was nothing that I could do. Even if I called for an ambulance, my father would be long dead before they had even departed for my house. Wes, on the other hand, was very much alive and needed my help.

"Wait!" my dad gasped. He latched onto my arm with as strong a grip as he could manage. His finger's felt slack against my skin and his eyes burned with intensity. "Not...not