Miranda hung up with Griffin. She stared at the phone a long, long time. It wasn’t that late, only nine o’clock or so, but it felt like 3 a.m., locked in her room in the hospital, walls crowding in as the drugs wore off, taking with them the gentle clouds that fogged her brain, leaving behind terror spiking her veins with broken glass and razor blades.
She closed her eyes. Focused on her breathing just like Dr. Patterson had taught her. Griffin was the one, he was the one, he had to be the one, he was her last chance, her final chance…and time was running out.
The sound of the apartment door opening interrupted her mantra. She leapt from her chair by the window and shoved the phone beneath her pillow, beside her suicide note.
“Sweetheart, I’m home!” her father called out.
Miranda couldn’t help her smile as she ran from her room and leapt into his arms. He wasn’t that tall—not quite six feet—but he was strong, strong enough to lift her off her feet with a hug.
Her dad was one of those guys born a couple of generations too late. He belonged in a different time, one where cops on the beat knew everyone and were greeted with homemade doughnuts and cupcakes when they stopped by. Back then, her dad would have been the kind of man that other men would tip their hats to as he strode past, and his kids would have called him “Pops” as they played catch with him on a manicured lawn beneath a sprawling maple tree.
That was the world and family and life her dad deserved. The life he’d built for himself, patrolling one of the worst zones in Pittsburgh. He hadn’t minded, not with his beautiful, brilliant “girls” waiting for him at home and the chance to really make a difference for the people he lived to serve and protect.
But this—twelve-hour days working as a campus cop, ticketing parked cars and listening to whiny drunk college kids followed by more hours working overtime at the Telenet Arena, a job she’d convinced him to take a few months ago, supposedly to pay for her online classes, classes she hadn’t even bothered to attend—this was hell for a man like him. And she saw it every day in the lines around his lips and eyes, the way he barely made eye contact with her mom anymore, as if he were the one who had let them all down.
It wasn’t his fault. Every time she saw that look on his face, she wanted to cry out, It was me! Blame me. Yell at me. Why do you even bother anyway?
But she never gave the words a chance to escape. Instead, she’d just hug him even harder, hoping that was enough…even though she knew it wasn’t.
“How was your day?” he asked, releasing her.
“Good,” she lied. “I made spaghetti for you.” With their conflicting schedules, her mom and dad never got to eat together, so Miranda made it a point to sit and pretend to eat with both of them. It was the least she could do.
“Hmmm, hmmm good. My favorite.” He went to change out of his uniform while she heated the food. Then he rejoined her in the tiny kitchen. “Need help with your homework?”
She shook her head. “It’s trig.” A lie. Carefully calculated to play to his one weak spot. Dad had an associate degree in criminal justice but never made it past high school algebra when it came to math.
He started eating. She watched. Spaghetti used to be her favorite as well, but somehow it seemed wrong to indulge herself. A small punishment for the lies and manipulations and the pain—past, present, and future.
“So”—he gathered noodles with his fork—“your mom said you didn’t make it out today. Want to go for a walk with me after dinner? You and me together? Just like we used to.”
She sat in stony silence, his words hanging in the air alongside the limp noodles dangling from his fork. He set the fork down with a clank. “Ariel—”
“Miranda,” she snapped.
He hated her new name, even more than Mom. But she needed Miranda. It was her only armor between the life she had—the life she’d loved—and her new life. Without Miranda, she’d return to that weak, stupid, trusting little girl, clueless, sniveling victim that she was.
Miranda was strong. Ruthless. Miranda would get the job done, one way or the other.
His sigh rattled her. “Sweetheart, you know what the doctors said. We have a deal. You need to keep moving forward.”
She drew her knees up to her chest and picked at her cuticles, trying to deflect his disappointment. Usually she could outwait him and he’d surrender.
Not tonight.
“Your birthday is coming up,” he surprised her by saying.
She jerked her head up. Did he know? Had he read her journal?
No. His expression was one of hope and…happiness. A glimpse of her old dad, the one who whistled as he walked up their front steps, came out from behind the clouds. God how she missed him. “I thought—we thought, your mother and I, and Dr. Patterson said it would be okay, we thought maybe, well…” He gaze stumbled against her stare. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you before your birthday on Sunday. So if you don’t like it, we can come up with something else. Not disappoint your mom—”
He slid three tickets across the table to her. Special passes to a private rehearsal of the Pittsburgh Ballet Theater’s performance of Giselle in June.
“Dr. Patterson thinks a goal, a date, something to work toward might be helpful. There will only be a handful of people there. It will be a very, very safe environment. And your mom remembered it was your favorite.”
Miranda couldn’t look up, her gaze weighted down as if the tickets were made of lead. How could she face her father when she’d be forced to demolish the light in his voice? Because there was no way in hell she could promise come June that she’d even be alive.
“But,” his voice faltered, “if you don’t think—if you’re not sure—it’s okay. I know it’s important for you to be in control, to have a choice, but…” His voice stumbled again. “I think we need to know there are options. You—we—need to have something to hang on to.”
Hope. He was talking about hope. Nasty little four-letter word.
She couldn’t lie to him. Not again. Instead, she unwound her body from the pretzel it had twisted itself into and stood up, embracing him with a hug that she poured every ounce of her body and soul into.
“Thanks, Daddy,” she whispered. He reached his arms up to circle hers, squeezing her tight.
And then she let him lie to her—to both of them. “Everything will be okay, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “I promise. I will never, ever let anything happen to you. We will make it through this. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.”