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I’d forgotten it was midterms. I’ve got major tests coming up and I can’t afford to flunk them anymore than Savannah. My stomach roils and a wave of dizzying nausea races through. I’m a trainwreck.
“Yeah,” I say, realizing Moira is staring expectantly while I spin around in my own head. “They’re a lot this year. Heavy class load.”
“That’s rough,” she says.
I nod and begin to say something back when my phone vibrates roughly in my pocket. Frowning, I pull it out. No one messages me this late, it’s after nine. It vibrates again and I realize it’s not a text but a call.
My Beautiful Birth Giver <3the caller ID reads.
“Mom?” I answer with a tremor in my voice.
ChapterThree
“Quinn,”Mom sobs.
A wrongness so deep and harsh that it hurts centers in my head. Cold creeps through my body and I shiver. Moira moves closer, placing a hand on my arm and the cold flees as her warmth radiates through my body. Our eyes meet and it feels as if the world around us, which had been spinning off its axis, suddenly locks into place. Everything is okay.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
I give Moira a thankful smile.
“Get him out of my room! He won’t leave me alone. He’s bothering our little girl.”
My dad’s voice booms in the background. I feel sick as my stomach turns sour.
“He’s really bad, Quinn,” Mom says. “He won’t settle down. I’m sorry, he’s upset about you. I didn’t know what else to do; can you please come over? You’re so busy with school, I hate to bother you, but—”
“Where’s my gun? I’m going to shoot that bastard,” Dad yells, cutting off what she was saying.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you, Quinn, I’m sorr—”
“Cold iron. That’s what I need. Bird shot with iron pellets.”
“Hurry, please.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left staring at my phone, which is suddenly heavy.
“Are you okay?” Moira asks.
I swallow my emotions before I lose it here with this girl I only just met. Part of me remains in denial. This isn’t my life, isn’t the way things are supposed to be, but the reality is right there, coming through my cell. It doesn’t matter if this feels fundamentally wrong.
“Uhm, yeah, I’ll be fine. My dad, he’s in a bad way, I need to go help my mom.”
“Ach, that’s rough. Anything I can do to help?”
Her use of that word tugs at my thoughts as I open the app to get a car. I touch the buttons on automatic, my attention on her.
“Are you Scottish?” I ask.
“Why do you ask?” Moira responds, her eyebrows drawing together as she leans slightly back.
“Your accent,” I say. “It’s soft, but you let it slip sometimes.” She frowns while my mind races, wondering how I’ve offended her with such a simple question. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s not rude.” She shakes her head. “I’ve tried to leave that behind, best I can anyway. Yes, I’m Scottish.”
“Why would you want to leave it behind?” I ask in surprise.
