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Present
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THE LAST THING I REMEMBERis the look on the face of my dad in the driver’s seat and the sharp curve of the road in the rain.
After that it’s only darkness. Like a thick, swirling midnight fog that masks what should be a familiar world.
I wake up knowing my dad is dead. The awareness exists as a weight in my chest, a heaviness in my gut—an old wound that still aches.
My eyes are closed. My head pounds. I shift slightly, trying to move my body into a more comfortable position.
Baby?
The word shudders somewhere in my mind, but I don’t hear it. It’s only a flicker of a thought. It’s not real.
“Scarlett?”
My name. I actually hear it. The voice is low and disembodied. Familiar, although I can’t match it with a face.
I should open my eyes. Maybe that will clear the dark fog. I fight to lift my eyelids.
“Scarlett? Wake up. Come back.”
The same voice. Low. Male. Slightly husky.
Commanding.
The cold, stark light is blinding when I manage a narrow squint, so I squeeze my eyes back shut.
“Scarlett, open your eyes.”
I do what the voice says, then blink several times because the light still hurts.
There’s a weird, throaty sound that doesn’t make any sense.
When my eyes finally focus, the face looking down at me is the last one I expect. Roughly attractive with dark brown eyes and a dramatic scar slashing down from one ear toward his jaw. Thick, unruly hair that’s slightly graying and almost reaches his shoulders.
Arthur Worthing. One of my father’s friends. The only one who didn’t completely turn against him when the rest of the world did.
I croak, “Mr. Worthing?”
Something odd happens to the face. It tightens visibly. The thin, mobile lips twist. “Scarlett, what’s wrong?”
“What the hell is happening here?” I can see beyond his face now. I must be in a hospital room. There’s a television bolted to the wall and an ugly, generic cabinet. “My dad?”
“Your... dad?”
“He’s...” My throat aches. I swallow hard over a lump that threatens to strangle me. “He’s... he’s dead.”
“Yes. He’s dead. For the past six months.”
I turn my head away because it feels like I’m going to cry. I don’t want Arthur Worthing to see.
After a minute, his last comment penetrates my foggy brain. “Wait. What? Six months? Sixmonths?”
Arthur frowns. He’s been seated on the edge of a chair pulled up to my bed, leaning over so he’s close, but now he straightens up. “Yes. It’s been six months since your dad died. You don’t...” He clears his throat. “You don’t remember?”
