Her father lied that night. He lied to the cops, claiming they’d been kidnapped off the streets. He lied to Eli Floyd and lost his finger. And worst of all, he lied to Ryley’s momma when she’d arrived at the police station to pick them up.
Ryley lay awake, huddled in her bed with her hands over her ears, trying to block the screaming. Her mother’s high-pitched, angry voice was screeching to the point her voice was turning hoarse. Then there was banging and her mom screaming in pain.
Ryley slid off the bed and tiptoed to the door. She eased it open in time to see her father standing over her mom huddled in the corner with her arms over her head. Her father’s fist came down hard.
He held a gun pointing at her prone body. Rage and evil filled his eyes.
“Stop! You’re killing her!” Ryley screamed as she ran toward her father with a balled fist and pounded on his leg. He shoved her off, and she ran at him again, unable to stop the anger boiling up inside.
Her mom was trying to stand and holding her bleeding head when he shoved Ryley clear across the room. Her head hit the table and made stars appear in her eyes.
He picked up the gun again when the door flew open, and Ryley’s brother stepped inside. Tucker looked at their mom first and then Ryley before dropping his things and tackling their dad to the ground with the same force he used on those boys on the football field.
The gun flew from her daddy’s grip as he tried to fight off Tucker. Ryley scrambled to it, grabbed the gun, and scrambled back in front of her mother.
Tucker and her daddy threw punches at each other until their dad flipped Tucker on his back and hit him harder. One punch after the next until Tucker wasn’t moving anymore.
“Stop it!” Ryley screamed through the tears pouring down her face. “Stop, or I’ll shoot you.”
Her daddy climbed off Tucker, leaving his battered and broken body on the ground.
“Please don’t come any closer,” Ryley said, her voice shaking along with the grip on the gun.
“I knew I should have fucking killed you,” he growled and lunged.
Ryley clenched her eyes closed and pulled the trigger, waiting for the creepy crawlies to come and collect her soul when her father beat her to death. There would be no stopping him this time.
Her eyes flew open when he didn’t grab the gun from her. He was holding his arm. Blood was seeping down his shirt.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. Please don’t die.” Ryley dropped the gun, unable to believe what she’d done.
Her mother picked up the gun and wiped the blood from her lip as she pushed to stand up. “Get out or so help me God, I won’t miss.”
Her father’s gaze narrowed just as two police officers arrived at the open door.
“Drop it,” one of them yelled, and her mother dropped the weapon out of their reach.
“He was trying to kill us,” Tucker said, rolling onto his side and holding his ribs.
Ryley learned a hard lesson that day. Not only was her daddy a monster, but there was such a thing called witness protection. Ryley would be taken to court and have to tell a bunch of people about how Mr. Eli Floyd shot that poor man in the head. Her daddy and the devil’s spawn had taken more than just her childhood that day. They’d taken her complete identity.
She, her momma, and her brother were each getting new names, in a new town, far-far away from Mr. Floyd and their daddy, and she had only to tell the truth.
Well, sort of. Her momma tried to tell her everything would be all right. It was Stretch who’d claimed the opposite. Eli’s mother had followed her home that night, and she’d warned Ryley that if she talked about the ghost, they might consider her the crazy one.
So, for once, she followed a ghost’s suggestion and walked in her daddy’s footsteps—Ryley lied.
Chapter 4
Present Day
Dying is easy.
It’s living that’s hard.
Stretch, the first ghost that had followed Ryley home had once made that comment, and it stuck with her over the years. The meaning was playing out before her eyes.
The funeral procession was fast. It should have been. Ryley was the only one sitting at the gravesite.
Nine empty chairs surrounded her. This was a first.
The deceased didn’t have a single family member or friend in attendance that cared enough to say goodbye.
What kind of man had Mr. Wilson been? There wasn’t even a single friend to shed a tear.
The answer didn’t matter. It was too late for the poor bastard to figure out the meaning of life.
The heat from the sun beat down on Ryley’s wide-brim hat. The muggy air lacked a single breeze. She dotted a handkerchief at the perspiration beading on her neck and fought the urge to tug at the sleeveless black dress sticking to her skin.
When Ryley died, she would leave the attendees little misting fans to wear and demand an attire of shorts and tennis shoes. The exact opposite of how she’d dressed today.
Flowers cascaded like a waterfall over the expensive mahogany casket. Too bad the person who’d sent the flowers hadn’t bothered to show.
The expensive casket was the crème de la crème. Ryley would know. She’d seen them all. The wood box suggested that the deceased had money, or at the very least, had spent years saving and planning for the event.
Funerals brought out the best and worst in people. The smart ones were thankful it wasn’t them in the box. Those people hugged their loved ones a little longer and tighter.
The other type knew how to take
