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“I live here.” Crying, I could barely utter the words as his eyes tried to understand what I was saying.

The man looked confused, even more confused than I was. He looked like he had found a ghost, like he was seeing someone who shouldn't exist.

“You live here?” Nodding yes, I squeaked as his grip tightened and the tips of his fingers dug into my neck. “Fuck. . . fuck, fuck, fuck.” Cursing under his breath, he stroked his chin, and dropped me to my feet. “Frank and Brandy—they're your parents.”

I didn't answer because it wasn't a question. He said it as a fact, like he was talking to himself to confirm what he had just learned.

Scrambling back, I trapped myself against the wall as the unknown man blocked my exit. Pacing back and forth, he was talking to himself quietly. I had no idea what it was he was saying, but he looked even more upset than he had before.

Looking behind him, I could see the open door and I wanted to run. But I wasn't sure I could make it by him.

You have to try, just try, Fiona.

His eyes were set on the floor, so I waited until he started his walk back in the other direction.

Go! Go! Go!

The words were so loud inside my head, that I lurched forward and started running in a panic. I didn't think about how I was going to get by him or where I'd go if I actually made it out. I just ran.

With one fast swoop, he trapped my hair in his fingers and yanked me back. “You're not going anywhere,” he said, his words curling around my lungs like daggers. “You're coming with me.”

“No! No!” I screamed as he started to drag me out of my room.

He can't take me! I won't let him take me!

Grabbing his arm, I bit down, but he just shook me off like a bug. It didn't phase him, nothing I did phased him. I hit him and punched him, I kicked and bit, and he just kept moving.

“Close your eyes,” he said, stopping at the top of the stairs.

“What?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Screw you.”

Huffing under his breath, he wriggled out of his jacket with one arm. Holding both my wrists in one hand, the man tossed his jacket over my head. Swooping me off my feet, he threw me onto his shoulder and I felt him start down the steps.

His strides were labored and wobbly, and I could tell the gunshot to his leg was bothering him as he grunted every time he had to put weight on his injured leg.

Everything around me was black, I couldn't see a thing. I tried my best to shift and throw the jacket off my head, but it was useless, it wouldn't budge.

And maybe that was a good thing. Maybe I should be thanking the man for not forcing me to see my dead parents again.

“This wasn't my plan, I wasn't going to kill him. But he shot me, your fucking father shot me. All I wanted was what he owed me, that was it. I only wanted to scare him, I just wanted to shake him up a bit.” He was speaking with this sorrow in his voice that confused me. And I almost believed he meant what he said—almost.

Until he tossed me into his trunk and closed the lid.

Remorseful people don't steal children.

They don't run away from the damage they caused, and pretend it never happened. They don't act like a death at their hands was justified because of a stupid debt.

But this man. . . he did all of those things.

He wasn't really remorseful for what he did, for taking my parents away from me. All he was upset about was that now he had to do something with me.

I just didn't know what that was.

And I don't think he did either.