Chapter One

I'm stuck behind a semi again; one with a tall cage full of stripped, decapitated trees, where the steel chains binding them never look secure. We're hauling at fifteen miles in a twenty-five and each time I try to skirt around the eighteen-wheeler, the driver decides to swerve into the middle of the already narrow street.

Dad used to ride the tail of these trucks for the hell of it, even though he knew that I feared them—I still do, thanks to far too many horror films I wasn't supposed to watch.

I think this could act as a testament to our relationship. If only I had learned to keep my mouth shut I probably wouldn't be in this situation. With the simple act of closing my jaw, I could have avoided such a torturous dinner party and left without this heavy ball of pressure encumbering my chest.

Why I thought this holiday would be any different than the last ten, I'm not sure, but I do know that the more I try to guard myself, the harder the punch is delivered.

Katie, one-half of the Twinkie Twins, spent most of dinner drowning chunks of corn into a sea of mashed potatoes. Kennedy—her less annoying counterpart—sat opposite her, so obviously sneaking a go at the handheld video game in her lap.

Our dinner conversations normally consist of whatever political debate is currently plaguing the media, but tonight, Dad chose to talk about Figure Skating Nationals, and how he was so excited about traveling down to Boston in January.

"Hun, you should see the routine we have planned," he had said to his new wife, Nina, with his mouth half full of turkey. "I mean, it needs a shitload of work still, but if Shelland commits to it, I think we have a great chance of placing."

Nina hadn't said a word, only focusing her attention on the baby monitor app she had downloaded on her phone.

"Shelland, you really have to work on your core and leg muscles. I'm telling you, it will help you significantly with your speed and accuracy, not just the jumps."

"Yep," was all the reply I could get out, considering Katie was attempting to hand-carve a castle out of her mashed potatoes.

"You know, Katie, there are starving kids in Africa who'd love to eat that food rather than play with it."

Her brown eyes had beamed at me in a tough little glare as she slowly pressed her fingers deeper into the muck.

"Katie," Dad said, "either eat or sit still."

She growled and waited for Dad to continue talking to me before kneading her plate again.

"So, Shell, don't forget to set your alarm. I'll be at the house around five."

I had dropped my fork at the shocking news. "Five AM? Dad, tomorrow's my day off!"

He shrugged at me. "And? We can work out for a few hours, go over the routine again, and then the rest of the day is all yours."

"But, I'm supposed to meet up with Pete at eight." I groaned, resting my head on my hand.

This is when Nina peered up through her blonde bangs. "Oh, are you two going to meet us at church in the morning?"

"No," I snorted. "We're actually going to head into town and sell the rest of Pete's heroin."

The table had fallen quiet almost instantly, and Nina managed to shoot me her signature glare.

"What's heroin?" Kennedy asked.

I rolled my eyes when Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the two of them left their mouths gaping.

I could see the way Nina had her mouth gaping, utterly shocked and irritated that I had let the conversation shift in such a manner. In an attempt to salvage any sort of pleasantry she reserved in her black heart, I said, "A heroine is a female protagonist in literature, movies, or plays; like, Jane Eyre or Fanny Brice."

Kennedy scrunched her nose before bluntly saying, "Oh, I thought it was drugs."

"Where'd you learn about that?" Dad had nearly choked on the water he just gulped.

She only shrugged, "On Shelland's Netflix account."

Dad gave me that stern look that said 'we've gone over this before', and Nina glared at me again, so I sulked into the seat and prayed to become invisible. Moments like this always reinforced how Nina disdained me from day one. At first, I thought it stemmed from her postpartum after the twins were born, but nine years later and nothing has changed. For a while I believed that her irritation was solely based on my relationship with Dad—which forces him to still maintain a relationship with my mother—but now I think she's just generally a terrible person.

"Pip, no mooching! You don't get human food." Katie burst, pointing the tips of her fork at the little brown lab. He was perched at my feet like the Sphinx, his eyes drooping upward with such hope for scraps.

"Katie, don't yell at the table!" snapped Nina. She was half-awake, her eyes still fixed on the quiet monitor. The dog kept staring at me, pleading like he'd been starved for weeks, so, when the turkey missed my mouth and found the floor, it was obviously by happenstance.

Katie's eyes went live. "Dad! Dad! Did you see that? Shelly is feeding the dog!"

"Way to be a snitch," I muttered.

"C'mon, Shelland, what are you doing?"

"Dad!" Katie barked at him again. "That's not fair! Why do I get yelled at and she doesn't?"

"She can't get grounded if she doesn't live here, stupid," said Kennedy, not bothering to look up from the screen pressed beneath her thumbs.

Katie couldn't handle it. She could not move past the idea of failing in her quest of my ruin.

"Don't call me stupid, stupid!"

Katie's fist connected with her plate and I helplessly watched as a thick puddle of lard slathered my dress. The same champagne, glittering Winter Formal dress I had saved an entire year's worth of holiday card money for. Formal is in two weeks from now, and Katie had completely ruined it.

The chair clattered against the floor when I jumped up. "What the hell, Katie?!"

"Watch your tongue!" Nina's voice rippled across the dining room. Not two seconds passed before their newest bundle of joy began wailing from down the hall. "That's great, Raif. We couldn't even go an hour."

She hustled down the hallway with her short, blonde ponytail whipping at her shoulders. Katie was nothing but ecstatic, whereas the rest of us were sitting in silence.

Dad finally sighed, "Shelland—"

"Dad, that wasn't my fault." I was still standing at the end of the table, gravy dripping from my chest to my hem.

"I think we can call it a night." Dad slapped down his napkin and leaned back in his seat. He had a hard time making eye contact as I remained standing, shocked and confused.

"What?" When Dad barely looked at me, I'd never felt more defeated. "Seriously, Dad? You're asking me to leave? What about fixing my skates?"

He shrugged. "I'll have to take a look at them tomorrow."

"Just forget it," I said, and in true theatre fashion, I pivoted on the heel of my boots and refused to look back as I stomped to the car.

And now, thanks to Katie, I'm stuck behind a logging truck with smeared mascara and a dress that smells like KFC.

"Come on!" I punch my horn repeatedly and it echoes through the pine.

Dad lives around Wolf's Bay, a long and windy road a half-hour away from civilization. Why did he buy a house so far out in the boonies? He says it's so we can have figure skating practice every morning while the lake stays frozen, but honestly, I think it's Nina's way of keeping distance from my mom and me, without actually ripping him out of my life.

I hit my horn again, and as the trucker finally echoes the sound, I flick my eyes down the snowy road ahead. In this moment, a thick gust of white powder blows across the street, and just briefly, I catch the dark silhouette of something huge.

I can't make out what it is exactly, but a chilling sensation sweeps across my shoulders, the hair prickling on the back of my neck.

An ear-splitting howl resonates through the trees and then the back lights on the semi blare bright and red and angry.

I slam on my brakes too, wincing at the squealing as the semi wheels fight to gain traction. Watching, horrified, as the truck slowly begins to slide sideways across the lanes.

My heart pounds as the semi grinds down the guardrail; spitting out sparks as metal scrapes against metal. Just when I think the truck is going to plummet—as the back wheels skim over the edge of the cliff—a cluster of pine trees catches the back end of the truck, finally pulling it to a halt.

There is silence when I put my car in park.

No movement. No sound. No indication of life inside the crumpled beast of a machine.

He's dead. Oh my god, what do I do if he's dead?

And then I catch a glimpse of an orange hat through the window, and I quickly scramble out of my car towards the vehicle.

"Hey! You okay in there?" I call out, opening the door and climbing up the tall foot rail. For a brief moment, I'm so thankful I chose to pair my dress with leggings and boots.

The driver is half-conscious, drowsily reaching toward the gaping cut in his forehead.

"Can you speak?" I ask, but he doesn't respond. I continue to ask him questions, but he refuses to peel his eyes away from the blood sliding down the cracks in the windshield.

"Can you hear me?"

"I think I hit someone," he finally says. His voice is as shaky as his hands.

"What do you mean?"

The black silhouette, I realize. I look out the window, but I can't make out anything past the snow and blood. He definitely hit something.

"I'm sure it was an animal. My Dad's hit a few on this road."

"No, there was someone—" His eyes are wild, terrified under the green glow of interior lights. "It was a man!"

"That's impossible! We're in the middle of nowhere."

The guy fixes his hard stare on mine, his voice growing more frantic as he continues to repeat the same few sentences again and again. At this angle, I can see the gash on his head is pretty deep. The right side of his face is under a mask of blood and beard, and I conclude he's hallucinating.

"Hey," I point to the walky-talky clipped on the visor overhead. "I need you to use that radio and call for help, okay? Can you do that?"

He mumbles something that sounds like a yes and I hand him the talky before jumping down from the semi.

My breath catches when I step in a lump of bloodstained snow.

"What the hell?"

The driver is right. He didn't hit an animal.

Where I expect to find a broken body entwined with crushed metal, there is nothing. There is no body, no antlers, no fur or bones; only blood and the imprints of a human foot, staggered across the trail until they disappear into the woods.

A single, red handprint drips down the edge of the bent guardrail.

I exhale, glancing back to the front of the semi. This doesn't make any sense!

The front of the truck—where the impact should be evident—is practically unscathed. It's the top of the semi that's busted and the weirdest thing is the hood is caved inward...as if something huge was hurdled onto it instead of slammed into.

A branch snaps, drawing my attention back to the forest. Bushes start shaking before a shadow darts through the thin spaces between trees.

"Wait!" I call down to them. "Stop! Help is coming!"

"Hey!" Without hesitation, I crawl under the guardrail and climb down the steep slope of snow-covered hill. It's only on this side of the rail that I notice the blood trail leads down to the lake.

"It's okay! I'm here to help you!" I cautiously make my way down the side of the hill, following the thinning trail of blood and footprints until they disappear when the trees meet the beach.

The snow covering the frozen sand is smooth, seemingly untouched in both directions. There is no more blood or imprints...no sign of life past the tree line.

Just when I decide to go back to the semi, a sharp cry pierces the air. The sound is charged with fear and anguish and the echo rattles a bird from the trees ahead. Silence follows for only a second, and then a sharp crack rips through the air, like metal snapping.

Bushes are rustling and trees are breaking, and when I pivot to face the street, I'm faced with the backside of the semi now sliding backwards down the hillside—and directed straight at me.

They say the greatest test of all is when your life is at stake. That's when you find out who you truly are. What does it say for me if, in that exact moment, all that's running through my brain is wondering how cold the water is going to be?

The truck is just a few yards away, and as logs fly past me on both directions, all I can do is I close my eyes tight and try to think about anything but the pain. I try think about Dad and Mom, and briefly, even Nina. I try to think of something profound and heartwarming, but the sound of logs clashing and the lake shattering is all that I can focus on.

This is it. I exhale, and brace for impact.

I'm smashed into by a hefty mass and for an infinitesimal moment, I'm airborne.

Just as quickly as I fly, I fall. Crashing down hard against frozen rock and water, sliding fast and rough against the solid lake.

Bones on ice, my shoulders scrape along the jagged rocks, sharp pains blooming across my back with each new puncture.

And then my head slams into something solid and everything goes black.

I can hear the wind whistling and water splashing in the distance as the ice shatters.

Slowly, so slowly my vision struggles to restore itself, but all these noises are overpowered by the harsh beating of the blood in my veins and a heavy breath.

The breath, however, is not my own.

I open my eyes to a pair of unfamiliar irises as stark as the ice besides me. His eyes are so vivid, so unreal that part of me thinks this is a dream.

The edge of his long hair sweeps across my cheek, and he quickly brushes the dark lock behind his ear. His lips, unevenly full, part and I wait in anticipation for him to speak.

In a single breath, he says, "Are you stupid, or just slow?"

I wince at his tone—or at the pounding radiating from the back of my skull.

I look pass his arm, extended beside my head. The semi is almost completely submerged already—the top of the semi sticking straight up like the Titanic.

Inside, I start to panic.

That could have been me. That should be me. I should be floating at the bottom of that lake, in a watery grave made with trees and metal. How did I get here?

I look back to the man hovering above me. He's young, but rough looking, with shoulder-length hair and light facial hair. Where did he come from?

"How did you—" I start to ask, but the question I've formed sounds so ridiculous.

"Slow, it is," he says. His tone is still harsh. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

"No, I wasn't," I manage through a dry throat.

He scoffs, "What the hell were you doing then? Playing chicken with a semi? That makes you stupid."

I'm hearing what he's saying, but I can't reply. All I can think about is the concussed driver that I left in the semi. Was he still in the vehicle or did he make it out in time?

My heart is about to burst through my chest. My body suddenly feels so weak each time I try to move. I want to get up and run, to find the truck driver, but my body won't cooperate.

A film of water suddenly clouds my vision. I'm trying so hard to keep my eyes from closing, but the man's features are quickly blurring and going dark through my lashes. The last thing I feel is the wind pick me up again.