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She channel surfs so quickly that the images fly by in a whirl. As they flash across the screen, a familiar profile captures my attention.
Everything around me stills.
I white-knuckle the bottle. “Stop.”
She turns toward me with wide eyes. “You wanna watch this?” She’s landed on some gorefest, but I can’t even focus on it to determine which one.
“Go back,” I tell her, motioning to the flat screen. My heart tightens in my chest. It feels like a hand is holding onto my heart and squeezing me.
Is this what it feels like when you’re dying?
“To the rom-com or the horror movie?” Her voice pitches with the latter, cutting through my morbid thoughts. “I’m so not in the mood to watch someone being hacked to pieces, but if that’s what you need to get out of this—”
What the hell is Emma going on about? I know she’s speaking, but suddenly there’s a ringing in my head that comes out of nowhere. Breathe, goddammit. You will not have a panic attack.
“Neither.” I finally spit out, pouring more booze into my glass, and then placing the bottle down. “Go back to the local news.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see she’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “Just do it, Em. Please.”
Emma is a stickler for manners even though hers could use some work. Ask nicely, and she’s far more malleable.
Her fingers on the remote echo through the small space as I hold my breath, nervous to see if it’s who I think it is. The blood pumps in my ears so hard it almost drowns out the sound of the TV.
A clip from a past hockey game dances across the screen. The newscaster is speculating if our local team has a shot at winning. My eyes scan over the opposing players as they fly down the ice.
“Hockey? Really, Cass?”
“Shh,” I snap a little too harshly.
Emma has no idea about the turmoil I’m currently experiencing. And how could she? I’ve shared absolutely nothing about the years I lived with my dad in the trailer with anyone, even her. But I can’t worry about her feelings right now.
I need to know if it’s him. The images on the screen aren’t helping at all. It’s nearly impossible to figure out who’s who. They’re moving too fast, making it difficult to see faces clearly.
I lean forward, squinting my eyes as I try to get a clearer view. Emma probably thinks I’ve gone nuts. I’m rarely this excitable, and never when it comes to sports.
The camera zooms in on a man’s back, and my whole body locks up. My heart skips a beat as I wait for him to turn toward the lens. The screen freezes, and then the commentator is back.
What the hell?
“Shit.” The word falls out of me on a harsh breath.
I didn’t get a good look.
The oxygen rushes back through my chest; the anxiety giving way to disappointment.
“Can I change it now?” Emma asks, completely missing my meltdown.
Which is good. That would only lead to questions, and I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.
“No. Not yet.” I don’t offer any explanation, and it’s clear she’s annoyed.
Emma sighs, but she doesn’t change it. The man on the screen is talking about the play, and I hold my breath again for what comes next.
A name.
One simple name, but it has the ability to render me speechless. And numb. And sick to my stomach.
It’s a name that has been haunting me for over ten years.
