Chapter 1
Fall 2008
COLD METALfilledthe palm of my hand as if the Glock had been designed with this moment in mind. Time stood still as a midnight thunderstorm surged outside the thin double-wide trailer’s walls. Hail pounded the roof, and with a flash, the power went out.
My index finger squeezed the trigger of the 9mm for what seemed like days. Lightning flashed again, and I let the hammer drop. Thunder absorbed the gunshot as it rolled through the atmosphere. In the brief moment of light, I caught a glimpse of the 12-gauge shotgun in his hand.
One hot shell bounced on the linoleum floor and rolled under a ripped and stained rocking chair. Hatred mixed with a healthy dose of excitement overcame me. My heart surged blood through my veins; I swear my heartbeat reached my ears. Heat ran up my neck to my cheeks; the 9mm remained heavy in my grip. I never thought I would be in this position again, with a smokinggun in my hand. It seemed strange how the shortest moments in time felt like an eternity.
My brain didn’t register that I had fired the shot until after he slumped to the floor and the life drained from his eyes. Blood trickled down his forehead, between his eyes, and pooled on his chest. I stared at his lifeless body until the lit cigarette between his fingers burned out.
I couldn’t find any sympathy for the way this man lived his life. Dirty dishes covered the counter and garbage overflowed in the container beside the refrigerator. A metal rod with an “M”—the same shape as the imprint on her neck—sat on the stove. Such a poor excuse for a human being.
This piece of shit didn’t try to explain why he left his woman to walk home in the middle of a thunderstorm. He didn’t ask why I was there, just reached for his weapon. It was almost as if he knew. And why wouldn’t he expect someone to rescue her at some point?
Confused, I wondered why he didn’t even bother to beg for his life. Maybe that’s normal; my dad didn’t, either.
In that split second, I was back in Moose Pass; it all came back to me. I was a scared fourteen-year-old boy praying to a God that may or may not exist. That time was different, though. I wasn’t able to save the womanand the man I shot was my dad. I really didn’t have a choice nine years ago, not like I did tonight.
My dad beat my mom bloody so many times I lost count. He finally took it too far that night and put a bullet in my only protector. When she stopped breathing, my world officially came to an end. He killed my mom and when he came for me, I had no choice but to end his life.
Every night, my reality turned upside down in the same nightmare: the barn doors swung open with a strong gust of wind. One glance at my mom’s body lying in the hay, then the sight of my dad crumpled, a pile of skin and clothes, and I knew what I had done.
I don’t remember pulling the trigger after my dad killed my mom, but I sure as hell did the night I picked up a scared, defeated girl. None of us men were much worth saving, but at least I had never hit a lady.
This loser didn’t deserve her. I didn’t try to hide the gun or the crime I had committed. I understood exactly what I was doing and exactly what it meant for my future. I also understood exactly what it meant for her future. Even though I may never be free again, she finally would be.
The storm ended for the small town of Talkeetna, Alaska, at the same time as it did for the girl in my truck. Both of our lives would never be the same. Somehow, I knew in my heart I had made the right choice, even if itwas the worst thing I’d ever done.
There was no point in trying to run. I placed my pistol on the hood of my truck, then sat on the porch smoking one of his cigarettes and waited for the cops to come.
Neighbors must have called the police because they arrived a few minutes after I walked out the door. She didn’t get out of the truck, just stared at me through the windshield as cold metal cuffs enclosed my wrists. I swear she mouthed, “Thank you.”
If I could have talked to her, I would have told her there was no need to thank me. When I saw the look on her face and the bruises on her neck, I knew I had to do something.
Chapter 2
Kennedy, age fourteen—February 2002
“KENNEDY AmberSmith!” My mother’s high-pitched voice rang through our single-wide trailer. I had pissed her off again. Not that it was anything new. She yelled at me through the open door as if it were closed. Loud enough that it caused me to jump out of bed and frantically search for something to wear.
“You’re late for school. Again. Girl, when will you ever get it together? Why can’t you be more like Megan?” Words spilled from her mouth, but all I heard was, “Blah, blah, blah.” It was always the same with her; she constantly complained about stupid, insignificant things. At least with her out of sight, I could roll my eyes without getting slapped.
I didn’t have my own alarm clock and my big sister, Megan, who I shared a room with, always refused to wake me up for school. The way she figured, I was old enough to get up on my own. Being fourteen sucked; tooold to be treated like a kid, too young to be treated as an adult. The everlasting in-between.
Our mom hardly ever bothered to get out of bed to see us off to school, so it startled me even more that her voice bounced off the walls. She didn’t have anywhere to be that early, so she usually stayed in her room while Megan and I helped the younger kids get ready. It’s not like she had a real job like everyone else’s parents. She earned her money from whoever she let spend the night in her bed. She called it “entertaining”, but I knew what she was doing, and it made me sick. Since she was up, it was probably one of her regular guys.
I must have been tired, I slept so hard I didn’t even hear them through the thin walls. I looked out my bedroom window to see who had parked their car in the driveway overnight. It was my way of preparing for which face to put on.
We rarely interacted with any of the men; the regulars were the exception. I was nice to Issac—white F-150—because he was nice to me. If his night fell on a weekend, he would make pancakes for all of us kids the next morning.
Mike was a jerk—black minivan—I refused to even look at him. He had no patience for smaller kids. One morning, my sister, Emily, hid behind my legs when Mike yelled at her to be quiet. I found my voice, raised it, and advised my mom’s friend that he had better notscare my sister again. I didn’t expect my mom to slap me across the face for protecting her.
Steve—red Camaro—was okay in the beginning, but anymore, the way he looked at me gave me the creeps. Last week, he winked at me and reached for my arm. I tried to pull away, but his grasp was too strong. He forced me to sit on his lap and whispered in my ear, “you’re so pretty, Kennedy. And so young.” He tried to kiss my neck, but I wriggled away. I told my mom that he tried to touch me, but she blew me off. Told me to forget it, that I was imagining things.
A newer model silver Camry sat in the driveway buried under a fresh layer of snow, so I knew it wasn’t any of them. Of all the men my mom “entertained”—her word, not mine—more than one drove this kind of car, but none ever stayed more than a couple hours.
I found a halfway clean sweatshirt and jeans in the dirty laundry basket and pulled them on, ran my fingers through my shoulder-length curly brown hair, and stuffed my feet into bear-foot shaped slippers to ward off the mid-winter cold which permeated the floors.
