"Hey honey, just calling to check in with you. I called several times, but you didn't answer. I'm beginning to worry. I'm sure you're just busy being a teenager, living your life. Ah, I am sorry I miss so much of it. You're a tough cookie, but I guess that's really no excuse, is it? Well... Anyway. I'm on the road so much these days it makes it hard to keep in touch. I will try phoning again around this time, so hopefully I'll catch you. I love you, sweetie. Goodbye."

Beep.

Cyrus never returned after the pizza debacle. As a result, Irene was able to return to her regular activities. But she still was looking over her shoulder every night, and there was a lingering anxiety whenever she entered the basement. A part of Irene felt as though she wouldn't feel truly safe until her father was home.

Thus, Irene waited by the phone for it to ring. She skimmed through an anthology of short stories, but her mind was raking over what to say to her father. Just when she despaired of yet another broken promise, the jingle of the landline sprung to life.

"Hello, Locklyn residence," Irene greeted, hiding the anticipation in her voice. There was static on the end of the line. Her heart sank in the dead air.

"Irene?"

Irene stood up immediately knocking her book onto the floor. "Dad! Hello! How are you?"

"I'm doing great! Especially hearing your voice, kiddo."

"I've told you before I'm a bit old for 'kiddo." Her tone was plaintive, but her eyes brightened as she picked up her book and sat back down.

"You'll always be my kiddo, even if you live to a hundred." Her father barked out a chuckle, and the relieved daughter leaned back in the dining chair. "Anyway, how're things? You weren't answering the phone. Have you been off at wild parties?"

"Of course not." Irene smiled despite her feigned indignation, wrapping the spiral phone cord around one of her fingers.

"Too bad." He laughed again. Irene closed her eyes and listened to her father's voice. "I kept bracing myself for a rebellious teen, and what do I get? A dutiful old soul. But I wouldn't trade you for the world." Calm contentment was jeopardised by a sigh. Her eyes shot back open, and she held the receiver closer to her ear. "Honey, I might not make it back this Sunday."

"Oh..."

"There was a small miscommunication about my flight. So you just need to hold tight a little longer. I've wired more money into your account for groceries," her father reassured.

Irene took in a slow breath, but tried not to exhale too noisily. And will a few days turn into a few weeks like last time? She clenched her jaw. "Alright, Dad, I'll see you when you get back. Then we can catch up."

"I've got time now," her father, unable to see his daughter's reaction, blundered forward in a jovial tone. Although Irene had been looking forward to talking to him, now she just wanted to hang up and process her dismay. Not hearing a response, he continued, "How's, uh, how's your friend, Merle, doing? Got any classes with her this year?"

"No. She's a grade behind me, remember?"

"Ah. Right. I keep forgetting. Well then, how's Jordan?" Her father moved onto the next item on the checklist. "He's a fine young lad; I'd like to have a beer with him," he said cheerfully.

"Uh..."

"Once he's legal, of course," her father quickly amended.

Irene sighed. "Remember the spill he took when he wasn't wearing his hockey helmet?"

"Oooooh, yeah," her father responded after an inward hiss. "But that was a while ago. I had a concussion when I was a kid but I was right as rain after some rest."

"Well Jordan wasn't." Irene told him bluntly, a dribble of irritation leaking into her voice. "The scans didn't show he was bleeding into his brain, and it got worse. He had surgery to relieve the pressure, but then he got meningitis during recovery."

"Oh." For a while there was an awkward silence. "I'm really sorry to hear that. I hope he recovers. I promise you, I will be back soon."

"Thanks, Dad. I'll see you then. But I've got to get to the store before it gets dark."

"Oh, alright then. It must be getting cold there now. I sent you a little extra for cab fare. Just remember to save-"

"Save the receipts, I know. Well. Goodbye, Dad."

"Take care, honey."

Click.

Irene rubbed her eyes, her fingers tips pressing into her skin as they trailed down her face. That could have gone better. But she'd endured this far already; she could handle a few more days. After all, the situation was not as dire as it had been when a vampire was occupying her basement.

Unable to rely on her father, Irene decided that she needed to do something. It occurred to her that she might attempt burning sage, but immediately laughed it off as foolish superstition. Only proven methods grounded in fact would satisfy her. However, her recent experiences left her questioning the hard science she'd come to rely on for answers. But that left her wondering what she could rely on.

Irene went to her basement. Procrastinating no longer, she whipped the sheets off of the cot and tossed them into the washer, adding a little extra bleach and soap. While that was washing, she went and got various supplies and began cleaning vigorously. She was determined to cleanse every trace of Cyrus and the terror he'd brought into her life.

----------------------------------------

With all the microwave meals and canned pasta she had been relying on, Irene had been craving something fresh. She pushed her cart into the produce section while shopping, the distinct aroma of citrus peels revitalising her with their promise of tanginess. However, she eyed the prices and looked at her cart, doing some mental math.

"Irene? Is that you?"

Irene turned, startled at hearing her name. "Oh, Mrs. Fisher. Hello," she greeted sheepishly. She picked up a grapefruit to examine it, trying to hide her embarrassment over her own jumpiness.

"Is your father still out of town?" Mrs. Fisher asked as she likewise began pinching lemons, selecting a few to add to the basket on her arm.

"Yes," Irene responded distantly, then picked up two grapefruits and put them in her cart.

"Are you going to carry all those groceries home by yourself?"

"I was just going to call a cab." Irene shrugged. "How is Jordan?"

"He's... he's hanging in there."

"Ah. Well..."

"Irene?"

Irene was just about to say her goodbyes and head to the checkout, but something in Mrs. Fisher's tone gave her pause. She chewed on her lower lip and peered curiously at the pleasantly plump woman. "Yes, Mrs. Fisher?"

"Call me Mary, please."

"I... okay, Mary. What is it?" Irene tapped her fingers on the cart handle.

Stolen novel; please report.

"How would you like to join us for dinner tomorrow night? We don't see much of you anymore."

Irene's gaze grew distant and she stared down at the colourful array of citrus fruits, unable to look at Mrs. Fisher for a moment. "I... it wouldn't feel right without Jordan there."

Mrs Fisher donned a wistful smile. "He'd be there in spirit."

Irene's stomach lurched and fluttered. Those words flew a red flag. She looked back up at Mrs. Fisher, no longer shying from her gaze. There were no misty eyes or apprehension she could detect in the woman. But still, Irene's curiosity and apprehension were now piqued.

"Well... alright. Just tell me what to bring."

Mary Fisher gave a dubious look at Irene's cart. Irene frowned, abashed at the cluster of macaroni and frozen dinners. She felt either judged or pitied, but Irene wasn't sure which bothered her more.

"Just you and your appetite will be plenty," Mrs Fisher assured Irene. "We eat at 6:00. If you want to come a little early, that's welcome too."

Six o' clock. Irene's knee-jerk reaction was to invent an excuse not to go just to avoid being out past sundown. But Cyrus was no longer keeping a target on her back; she needn't fear the dark any longer. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you, Mrs. Fisher. It means a lot to me."

Rain poured down as Irene stood at the Fisher residence. In one hand she clutched a dripping wet umbrella. In her other hand she brandished a bottle of sparkling juice. Taking in a deep breath, she rang the doorbell.

Mrs. Fisher answered the door and immediately donned a large, pink smile. Irene inspected her brow for worry lines, but she seemed genuinely delighted to see her. Feeling a little more at ease, she held up the bottle.

"Oh thank you, sweetie. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Jordan and I would usually split a bottle on my birthday."

"That was very thoughtful of you, Irene. Hang up your wet things and make yourself at home."

Irene hung her jacket up on a nearby hook and slipped off her shoes; she was self conscious about tracking mud in on the Fishers' pristine floors.

A warm, savoury aroma greeted Irene, tinged with woodsmoke. She followed Mrs. Fisher into the living room, where Mr. Fisher sat in his easy chair by the fireplace. He glanced up from his newspaper just long enough to nod, then he straightened the paper and brought it up higher to cover his face.

"Dinner will be ready soon. Make yourself at home." Mary gave her husband a sharp look, but then disappeared into the kitchen.

Irene sat on the floor, cross legged. The air was filled with the crackling of the fire, and the crinkling of newsprint. She stirred the fire around with the poker to help reinvigorate it. Normally, the silence from Jordan's father would bother her, but after what she went through with Cyrus, it failed to register.

Cyrus. Why did I have to think of him? Irene stabbed at the log with a bit more force, causing a spray of sparks to flare out with an enthusiastic pop. Mr. Fisher lowered his paper and fixed her with a stern gaze. Irene cleared her throat and put the poker back on its stand. Mollified, he raised his newspaper again.

As Mr. Fisher was determined to be poor company, Irene opted to spend her time elsewhere. Wonderful smells, savoury, slightly pungent, and mildly sweet greeted her as she stepped into the kitchen. "Mrs. Fish... Mary, is there something I can help with?"

Onions and peppers lept in the pan Mary was handling, delightfully browned and caramelized. "No, that's alright dear, it's almost ready."

Irene looked around, determined to occupy herself. "I'll set the table, then."

"Thank you, Irene."

Irene was making an endeavour not to think; unfortunately the result was setting four places at the table.

Mr. Fisher came in and sat down in his seat, the only dining chair with armrests. He gawked at the additional plate in confusion, then his face turned grim.

"What is this? Are we expecting someone else?"

"Oh, silly me, habit," Mary twittered, quickly taking away the extra dish and utensils. Irene caught Mary's eye briefly and nodded to her in thanks, and Mrs. Fisher winked in response. Mr. Fisher's craggy face dimmed as he stared at the empty space at the table.

Mrs. Fisher set down a glossy glazed ham. It had been a long time since Irene had a home cooked meal. She sat back and just enjoyed this snapshot of an idyllic family sitting down to sup together. The cozy scene was foreign to her, but something she often longed for.

Mary opened the bottle Irene had brought. "Would you like some, Jerry? It's apple cranberry."

Mr. Fisher squinted at the label before he shook his head. "No. Water's good enough for me."

Mary nodded and placed a pitcher of water by him. She then poured some sparkling juice for Irene and then for herself. "So, Irene, how has school been going?"

"Okay."

Mary buttered a roll. "Any plans for going to college?"

Mr. Fisher looked up from slicing the ham with some interest.

"I've been looking at scholarships and maybe getting into a co-op program at UVic. I'm thinking of going into exercise and health sciences," Irene answered as she ladled vegetables onto her plate. Mary looked down, but Irene was certain she saw just the briefest little crook of a smile on Mr. Fisher's ruddy face. But soon his mouth was occupied with a piece of meat.

"Have some ham, Irene," Mary entreated, passing the large serving platter over. "Do you have any other plans after school?"

Irene stared down at her plate, anxiety tickling her. Ideas percolated as she placed a small slice of ham on her plate. There was an odd sense of relief of being able to think long and hard. She was grateful to settle into a slower pace of life again, but something was still nagging at her.

"My plans are flexible. A lot really depends on how this year goes," Irene finally answered. As she ineffectually tried to saw her slice into smaller morsels, she glanced up and caught Mrs. Fisher staring, looking almost disappointed.

"I see. That's... prudent," Mary Fisher responded. She was making slow headway on cutting her slice into small, neat squares. Mr. Fisher was already reaching for second helpings.

For a while they all ate in silence. The food was delicious, but Irene felt her appetite dwindle. She caught several glances between Jordan's parents, and wondered if she'd done something wrong. If only Jordan was actually here.

"Irene..." Mary set her utensils aside.

"Yes?"

"I... just want to say I'm glad you've stuck with Jordan this far. He's told me that you don't really like hospitals. I understand it must be hard for you to see him like that."

Mr. Fisher frowned, scowling. "It's hard for all of us."

"Of course it is," Mary amended hastily. "I am just trying to say that someone who didn't really care about our Jordan might have already moved on."

There was a startling clatter as Mr. Fisher slammed down his utensils. "Oh, enough of this!" He looked straight at Irene, his thick brows furrowed. "Irene. Did Jordan ask you to marry him?" Mary looked mortified, but also had a look of hungry anticipation. Irene looked back at Mr. Fisher, whose temple was pulsing as he ground his teeth. "Well?"

Irene's stomach fluttered and her ears grew hot. "He mentioned it. But we're still in high school."

"He's fixated on the idea. What did you do? Tell him you're pregnant?"

"Jerry!" Mrs. Fisher scolded. "This is dinner, not an interrogation!"

Mr. Fisher held up a hand to his wife.

Irene stared at him, jaw hanging open in astonishment. She was blindsided by how quickly Mr. Fisher jumped to that conclusion. Had Jordan indicated their relationship had become that intimate? She was at a loss whether to feel vexed or bemused towards her boyfriend, if that were indeed the case. But there was no doubt how she felt towards his father at that moment.

Irene firmly closed her mouth, pressing her lips into a taut line as she steeled her expression, locking her eyes with his. "No."

Mr. Fisher waited, as if expecting her to elaborate. But none came. While still keeping eye contact, she ate another piece of ham to indicate to him he was not getting another word from her.

"I don't want my son throwing his life away."

"Jerry!" Mary protested again in a higher pitch, this time being the one to slam her utensils down. "That is uncalled for!"

Irene looked at what remained on her plate, then stood up. She felt raw, and these cutting words were carving away at parts of her that were still healing. She would not take any more. No one was forcing her to be there; she wasn't powerless this time.

"I came here because I thought I was welcome."

"Irene, you are..." Mrs. Fisher clasped her hands together.

Irene held up her hand. "I don't think I am." Mrs. Fisher looked hurt, while Mr. Fisher just looked affronted. Irene gave Mrs. Fisher a haphazard smile. "All the same, thank you for the lovely meal."

"Now look what you've done," Mary berated as Irene took her plate over to the counter. Mr. Fisher crossed his arms and snorted. Mrs. Fisher turned to Irene again. "I am sorry about all this. Will you let me drive you home at least?"

"Thank you, but no," Irene responded. It sounded as though the rain had let up. She needed time alone to think.

Mary frowned and then gave her husband another sharp glance. He calmly resumed eating his dinner, sandy eyebrows raised. It was a scene Irene was eager to leave before it escalated further. Maybe one day they would be her in-laws, but until then, their disagreements were none of her business, even when she was the topic.

----------------------------------------

Butterflies fluttered in Irene's stomach as she walked home from the bus stop. A sparsely lit road stretched ahead of her. There wasn't much traffic in this area; to Irene it appeared as daunting and impassable as the sea. She regretted refusing the offer of a ride.

Irene saw her driveway in the distance. She was almost home. As tired as she was, fear spurred her into a run. All she could think of was racing into her house, locking the doors, and jumping under her covers where it was safe and warm. The gravel on the narrow shoulder of the street crunched under her feet.

Almost there!

A barking dog caused her to falter, but she regained her step and sped up. Just a dozen more metres and she would be home.

One moment she had a clear view, the next a silhouette barred her path. Her feet slipped on the gravel as she tried to stop, but she ploughed face-first into someone. Before she could step away and apologise, one of her arms was grabbed and she was roughly spun around. Shock and pain blazed as her arm was twisted behind her back. Irene opened her mouth to scream but an earthy taste and a leathery texture halted her attempt.

Gripping her umbrella, Irene tried to jab it at her assailant over her shoulder. Her hand shook with impact, but then she felt the umbrella moving. The water had made her grip slippery, and the umbrella was easily wrest free.

Irene whined through her nose and bit down hard on the cold leather obstructing her mouth. In response she felt another leather clad hand clamping on the sides of her neck. Vice-like, the grip pressed harder and harder and she felt as though her head was going to explode. Dark spots formed in her vision, eclipsed in a sparkling glow. Irene tried to make sense of what was happening, but everything faded rapidly.