It's been a whole week.

The slight bruises on my shoulder are better, barely visible since Jackson knocked me into the snow. If only my heart weren't still on the icy pavement, butchered by the truth that took the world out from under me.

I'm sitting upstairs in my old room, staring at the lonely painting propped against the wall. Dad moved mom's excess stuff in here, the landscape projects she attacked so vigorously they wouldn't even fit in their bedroom anymore.

The birch trees in front of the Alaskan wilderness have never looked sadder. It's another grim reminder the world isn't even close to what I thought, and her talk about how much Marshal helped her was just more madness speaking. Not reality.

I never asked for proof after I hobbled inside, helped along by Ginger and my brother. Amazing, really, since he's the one who needed a visit to Urgent Care to rule out a concussion.

But he was hellbent on making me see the light. He took my phone. Said he'd keep it safe, and having it would help him turn over any incriminating threats that Castoff Freak left on my voice mail immediately.

We need to act fast, sis. Before he slithers home and takes off with his daughter. We can't let him leave town.

My brother's words echo like a bad movie. The whole night still feels like a dream.

Worse because I didn't just lose the love of my life, didn't just have the little girl I was ready to adopt ripped away from me.

Somewhere in the middle of his interrogation, mom stopped crying, and dad stepped into the room. He told us he was taking her to the mental health place in Davenport, now that she's done putting up a fight.

I lost my mother. Her eyes never looked so dead, so vacant, as he led her to the car, whispering encouragement.

There, there, Steph. Everything'll be okay. Just a few weeks. That's all we're asking.

Everything? No, nothing ever will be again.

I've been too upset to make the hour long trip to see her, but I keep telling myself it'll happen soon. I just need to get this sickness under control.

I just need to let the wound close, slow the steady bleed oozing from my heart.

Only, Jackson hasn't let that happen. He stayed overnight with Ginger. They were there at the breakfast table, waiting for me, asking if I was well enough to sit down, and listen.

He showed me the papers. The Jenna Flynn case, a troubled young woman with a newborn who ran her car off the road half a decade ago. It was only a couple weeks after she had Mia, and told Marshal she wanted nothing to do with her.

Only, that isn't what she said. What Marshal told me isn't the story listed in the police file Jackson tracked down. She said she was leaving town to clear her head, and she'd be back to deal with the little girl, probably after a few months.

Sure, there were drugs in her system, but it doesn't change the truth.

Marshal lied to me. He lied about her intentions, about my brother's brakes, and apparently, about what really happened to Mia's mom.

I knew the town had a problem before he slugged my brother. I'd heard the whispers and seen the disapproving looks, but what did it matter when I was seventeen, focused on college, no thoughts of falling in love with a troubled, manipulative older man whatsoever?

What a fool.

God, what a stupid, blind, gullible, heart broken fool.

I peel myself off my bed long enough to pad downstairs for a bite. Dad is in his easy chair, Earl Grey in his hands, which he sets down the second we make eye contact.

“How is she today?” I ask, wondering if he's heard from mom.

“Better. They're saying the new drugs are really helping, but we'll have to see how the behavioral sessions go. How are you?” Concern shines behind my father's glasses.

I give him a pained look. You really can't tell?

“I want my phone from Jackson,” I say. “I'll turn over anything that comes up right away, of course. But it's the only contact I've got for the clinic.”

“The job posting?” Dad asks, surprise pulling at his face. I nod. “Wow, so soon? That's wonderful, honey. Really.”

Loving Marshal left some obvious wreckage. I didn't think it'd turn me into a liar, but it has.

It's not the blood job I'm interested in. I'm not sure I'll be in the state of mind for a job interview in the next century. Rather, I need to follow up on these cramps, the constant nausea every morning. Tragic symptoms of the psychic trauma I just suffered, I'm sure.

I hope.

I'm not ready to contemplate the other possibility. It's the reason I haven't taken dad's car to the drugstore and gotten tested to find out.

I can't be pregnant with Marshal's baby. Not after he left a canyon sized hole where my heart should be.

“We spoke maybe an hour ago,” dad says, stroking his chin. “I'll give him a call back and see about your phone. There's probably time to catch him before he goes to work.”

I'm barely listening, heading into the kitchen. I dump a small mountain of bland Cheerios into my bowl, even though it's long past one in the afternoon.

“Hey, he got your car yesterday,” dad says, giving me a hopeful look.

I tense, my fingers digging into the counter. “Just like that? You mean he went to Marshal's place?”

Our old place. The comfy little house in the woods and the shop tucked in the forest, where I thought I'd build a life.

Dad nods. “Yeah. No sign of him or the girl. Lots of police warrants out to bring him in. Nobody knows where they've gone. I feel bad for the kid.”

I choke on my first bite of cereal. It tastes like ash and I'm totally sobbing, remembering Mia's sweet smile.

“Sorry, honey. I should have told you last night. Didn't want to say anything and upset you.”

“I get it,” I tell him, pushing the bowl away.

He's out of his chair before I'm halfway across the kitchen, stopping at the end of the stairs. “Going back up? No worries. I'll clean up.”

I mumble a thanks and retreat to my bedroom to lick my latest wounds. My father isn't wrong.

I hope like hell Mia is okay.

But for some sick reason, I hope Marshal is, too. I want him to be okay, dammit. I tell myself that's for Mia's sake, but my lying, damaged heart can't hide the truth from itself.

I want him to be okay because I'm still praying, as irrational as it is, that this is all a hideous mistake.

I want to just settle into my pillow, close my eyes, and wake up with the world being right-side up again.

* * *

Four more days pass in a haze. I'm outside on the deck, freezing with the phone clutched to my ear.

“Ms. Kelley? Sarah?” It takes Dr. Cartwright saying my real name to break the trance.

“I'm here. Sorry, doctor.”

So sorry. It's the first time in forever I let myself feel a shred of self-pity. I should've known going into the clinic to get checked would lead to this.

“You heard the results, correct?”

“Yes. Of course. I spaced and I'm sorry.”

“It's no trouble, considering the circumstances.” Brutal. His voice is soft, but there's judgment. “Listen, there's a wonderful prenatal and maternity crew in Davenport. I'll have June set up your referral to ensure you receive the finest care.”

It's like he's read me a death sentence. My hands go to my waist, trembling, and I pull my cardigan tighter. It doesn't do much against this kind of cold. I'd better get back inside. Surely, fetuses won't be harmed by a few minutes of twenty degree exposure?

I don't have a clue. I have to start thinking about this stuff, whatever it takes to keep the baby I shouldn't be having safe.

“Thanks, doctor. I'll be waiting.” I wait before my screen starts flashing.

The call ends. No goodbye.

He's an asshole, but what do I expect? Dr. Cartwright knows it's just as unplanned as I do.

Oh, and not only am I staring down the black hole of having a child I'm not the least bit mentally equipped for, but I've just blown my best chance to snag a lab job in town.

I'm fucked.

Completely hopelessly devastated.

I'm holding in a silent scream as I fling open the door and step inside the house. Of course, there's a surprise waiting that makes the wintry February snow seem downright balmy.

“Oh, there you are, sis. Finally.” Jackson beams. I don't know how to associate my brother's harsh smile with anything less than a new nightmare. He pushes something across the kitchen counter, taking a long slurp of coffee. “Look this over. Tell me what you think.”

“Can't it wait? I'm not really...I'm just not in the mood.”

His smile disappears. He picks the slim stack of papers up, rounds the corner, and gets in my face. “Okay. You will be for this, though. Read.”

What choice do I have? What choice ever where he's involved?

My eyes skim the words. I see a judge's name, something about a restraining order, custody, and – Mia.

Jesus Christ.

My stomach tries to turn itself inside-out.

“What's the matter? I thought it'd perk you up. Soon as we show up on the Castoff's fucking doorstep, we've got him. We can get her away, somewhere safe, where she'll have a chance to – hey!”

I'm stumbling, knocking over a water bottle on the counter. I can't breathe. Hell, I try not to, because if this is really some twisted nightmare, maybe I'll finally wake up once the oxygen deprivation hits.

“Sis? Whoa. Hey, Ginger!”

I didn't even notice my sister-in-law nearby. Her hands are the only thing keeping my knees from slamming into the floor a few seconds later. I'm doubled over, both their arms tucked under my shoulders, watching hot, vicious tears slap the kitchen's wooden floor.

“Oh, Jackson, why'd you have to lay this on her now? She's been through so much. It isn't easy being stuck in the middle of all this. I told you, wait.” It's one of the few times I've ever heard her annoyed.

It doesn't help. The second I turn my head, eyeballing her growing baby bump, I want to throw up all over again.

God damn it, Marshal Howard.

A shrill whimper punctures the air. I think I'm hyperventilating.

“Mia!” I whimper, the only word I'm able to get out.

“What? What?!” Jackson barks the same question in my face twice, angrier by the second. “Don't tell me you still give a shit what happens to the kid? Can't you see what I'm trying to do here? You can't be this fucking blind, sis.”

“Jackson, don't! Come on.” Ginger's grip tightens on my arm. She tries leading me to the sofa in the living room, but my brother isn't having it, blocking our path.

“No, you come on. It's bullshit. Here I am, trying to do the right thing, searching high and low for that goddamned killer freak. Same thing anybody with a brain should've done years ago: get the kid away from him. If there was ever a bad fucking influence –“

“Jackson!” A louder male voice I don't recognize at first booms down the hall. We all stop and turn. “Enough. Leave her be.”

Dad steps into the fray, a quiet anger in his eyes. My brother stands taller, straighter, staring our father down. “Stay the hell out of this, old man. You let that freak in the house, too. Neither of you were ever fit to care for mom. Just wish I'd seen it sooner.”

I'm petrified. So is Ginger. We watch in horror as my father blinks once and then adjusts his glasses. “I wish I knew what the hell happened to you over there, son. It's sick what you've become. Fit? You're no longer fit to come here.”

I wish I could applaud my father for finally growing a backbone. Too bad it's today, after everything else has left me numb.

“Really? Just like that you've found your balls? Nice. Real fuckin' nice! This is the thanks I get for trying to track down the asshole who assaulted me twice, and put our mother in the nuthouse.”

“Leave, Jackson. I'm tired of it. Ginger, drive him home.”

My brother's eyes laser through his wife. “I know when we're not welcome. Let's fucking go.”

Her arm slips off mine. It's rare to see anyone look as disgusted as my own sister-in-law as she walks to the table, grabbing her purse, probably contemplating the painful drive home.

Jackson slumps against the wall, stewing and waiting. My father heads for the kitchen, shaking his head, knocking around cups in the cabinet more loudly than he needs to.

“What the hell were you so busy bawling about anyway? If it's not my full intent to nail that Castoff prick to the wall, then –“

“I'm pregnant.” It just falls out.

I didn't know the truth could go terminal until now.

Confusion flicks through my brother's eyes, rapidly becoming shock, and then rage. “You're...you're fucking knocked up? You've got to be shitting me, sis.” He pauses, shaking his head, jerking up and closing on me so fast he winces. “Who?”

I don't say anything. There's no point.

I'm alone, somehow still standing underneath the heat lamps where Jackson's eyes should be. And right now, I'd give anything to see Marshal again.

I don't care if it's insane. I don't care if it's desperate. I don't even care if he lied, ran, and left me behind for good.

Whatever he's guilty of, it can't be worse than weathering the explosive betrayal in my brother's face.

It's gone dead quiet in the house. I wait for Ginger to come between us, use her charm on overtime to lead him away, but she's stopped, staring, unsure. It's too much for even her.

“Who, Sadie? Who? Who the fuck got you...Jesus!” Jackson can't bring himself to say it.

Then his hands are on my shoulders. Thumbs digging into my clavicles. He's screaming something my ears have lost the will to comprehend.

“It was him. Him. Fucking him!”

“Jackson! No, no, holy –“ Jackson flings her away. Ginger squeals, holding tight to him for support, but barely.

His eyes widen and his grip dies. It takes his pregnant wife nearly slamming into the wall face first before he lets go.

Jackson steps back, disgusted. I wish I knew if it was meant for me, or himself.

“Fuck. I'm so sorry, baby,” he growls, clenching Ginger to his chest. He cups her reluctant face, sliding his fingers through her hair, giving me and dad the evil eye.

For once, I stare right back, finding my strength. I did not make you do that, asshole.

“We're going home, and I'm sorting out the shit nobody else has the stones to deal with. I've got a lead on that Castoff prick. Mark my words, I'll pay him a visit myself. Before the police show up. I want a chance to beat the ever-living shit out of him first for wrecking my life.”

“Jackson!” Dad barks his name one last time, but there's no stopping him.

He's gone, heading through the garage, a sobbing Ginger hooked on his arm. I'm still alone, cold, and utterly crushed.

Even when my father finally turns to me, disgust fading from his eyes, and holds me in the tightest embrace I think we've shared since my Sweet Sixteen, it isn't enough. It isn't consolation. It can't help.

I know what's coming next: disaster.