Page 1

“Never to suffer would have been never to have been blessed.” Edgar Allan Poe

T he battered door creaks, its weight echoing the night’s tension, and its rusty hinges groan as I push it open. I step inside, my heels clicking against the old wooden floor. Another sound too sharp for the thick silence that hangs in the air. I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as if I could trap the chaos of the night outside. My face feels flushed, no doubt burning red from his hand. I turn to my right to peek into the mirror hanging on the wall of the foyer before entering the living room. Letting out a soft sigh, I can see even in the darkness that my bottom lip is split, and a faint bruise is already blooming along the pale skin of my cheekbone. I touch it gingerly, wincing as my fingertips brush the tender skin.

“Deirdre?” My father’s voice rasps from the other room. The weakness in his voice makes my stomach twist. I don’t want him to see me like this.

Not again.

“I’m here, Dad,” I call out, shrugging out of my coat and draping it over the nearest chair. I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, as if that will somehow erase the night’s events.

“Come in here, sweetheart,” he urges, his voice thick with concern.

I hesitate before stepping fully into the dimly lit living room, coming into view of my father. He sits in his worn recliner, a quilted blanket is draped over his lap. The chair’s oversized cushions swallow his frail body. His once strong frame is now a shadow of itself, his skin a ghostly pale color, and his cheeks hollow from lack of nutrition. But his eyes, those sharp, piercing eyes that have seen so much in their lifetime, immediately find their mark. My face.

“What did he do this time?” His voice cracks, a mix of anger and despair. My heart lurches in my throat at the sound of his voice. It’s killing him to see me like this, even more than the cancer.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I…I tripped. It’s fine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps, the effort of raising his voice making him cough. He clutches his chest until the fit subsides, then his steady gaze fixes on me. “I’ve seen this before. I know what’s happening.”

I lower my eyes under his gaze, shame burning in my cheeks. I want to tell him it isn’t as bad as it looks, that I can take care of Trevor myself, that I have it under control. But the truth sticks in my throat like a thorn.

“Deirdre,” he says, softer now. “You can’t keep making excuses for him. That boy, he’s going to break you. And I…” He pauses, voice trembling. “I won’t be here much longer to pick up the pieces.”

My head snaps up as panic swirls in my stomach. The thought of my dad no longer being here on this earth shatters me. “Don’t say that. You’ll be fine. The doctors said…”

“The doctors don’t know everything,” he interrupts, his tone firm. “I can feel it, Deirdre. My time’s running out. And I need to know you’ll be safe when I’m gone.”

My tears burn and prick at my eyes, but I quickly blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I can’t let him see me cry. When he was diagnosed four years ago, right before I was about to leave for college, he was the strong one. He insisted I go and continue pursuing my dream in literary arts. I didn’t, deciding he needed me around more.

As he began to decline from the disease a few months ago, our roles switched. I became the strong one. There is no way I could leave him now, not like this, but the persistence in his voice tells me he is not going to let this go.

“I don’t know how to leave,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if he finds me? What if it just gets worse?”

My father reaches into the side table drawer and pulls out a worn envelope. Its edges look frayed from being handled too many times. He holds it out to me with a trembling hand.

“Take this,” he murmurs. “It’s not much, but it’ll get you started somewhere else. Somewhere far from here.”

I blankly stare at the envelope he is holding in front of me, my hands frozen at my sides. “Dad, I can’t take your money. You need it for…”

“I don’t need it,” he says firmly. “What I need is to know my little girl has a chance. If you’re too scared to turn him in, then save yourself. Go. Don’t let him take any more from you. I’ve sat back and respected your wishes not to turn him in because you’ve said you’ll just deny it. Either leave or I go to Detective Singh myself.”

My hands shake as I reach for the envelope, the weight of it feeling heavier than it actually is. I open my mouth to protest again, but the look in my father’s eyes stops me. He has no intention of arguing with me. His eyes are full of love and a hint of desperation.

“Promise me,” he says, his voice breaking. “Promise me you’ll leave.”

My tears begin to fall as I nod, clutching the envelope to my chest. “I promise.” I can barely choke the words out.

My father’s shoulders sag in relief, and he closes his eyes. His breathing is shallow but steady. I stand for a long moment, watching him, memorizing every line of his face, the sound of his fragile breaths. I know this will be the last gift he will ever give me, and I’m damn sure not going to waste it.

When I turn to leave, the envelope is still clutched tightly against my heart. I finally feel a flicker of an emotion I haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Twelve Months Later

After a year of fleeing the dark shadow of Trevor and running from the consuming grief of losing my father, the one man who had always tried to shield me from the world’s cruelties, I arrive in the quaint town of New Haven, determined to keep the promise I made to him.

The wrought iron gates of Cornelia Heights University loom against the cloudy gray sky, their intricate designs casting delicate shadows on the cobblestone path leading up to the main steps. I inhale and hesitate for a moment before stepping inside the gates. As I pull my backpack tightly against me, the few belongings I have in it shift, and I’m reminded of the envelope tucked deep inside, my father’s money still untouched except for the occasional glance to remind myself of why I chose to settle here.

The three months that I have spent in New Haven have been a blur of late-night shifts at Salvation, an exclusive gentlemen’s nightclub for New Haven’s elite. The long hours were grueling, but it has kept me afloat. Every dollar I earn goes toward tuition. The thought of using his money sent a pang of guilt through me. It felt sacred. So, I made the decision, I would use it one day for something that would make my father proud of me.

Now, standing before the tall gates of Cornelia Heights, I can feel my breath hitch in my throat. I never pictured myself attending an Ivy League school, but I’ve always dreamed of being challenged by some of the country’s most complex literary minds.

The campus stretches out before me. Multiple cathedral-like stone buildings stand before me, cloaked in ivy and connected by large walkways with gothic spires that pierce the pale morning sky. They exude an air of both grandeur and intimidation. Cornelia Heights isn’t just a university; it’s a sanctuary for some of the most recognized intellectuals in the country.

And now, it is my university.

I smooth the front of my blouse, trying to calm the nerves that churn in my stomach. At twenty-two, I feel like an outsider, a latecomer to the world of academia where everyone else seems to have figured out their path years ago. I took care of my father for so long after high school that I lost sight of my own dreams. But my father’s voice echoes in my mind, steady and certain: “You’ve got more fight in you than anyone I’ve ever known.”

With a deep breath, I step forward, my heels clicking against the cobblestones. Students walk busily around me, not paying any attention to the new girl dressed in all black who sticks out like a sore thumb. Their conversations are punctuated by laughter and the occasional murmur about upcoming classes. I clutch the strap of my bag tightly once more until my knuckles turn white, my heart pounding in rhythm with my footsteps. Even though today is only enrollment and orientation, every step felt monumental, as though I am walking into a new life entirely. I can only imagine how I will feel on the first day of classes.

I continue my trek to the admissions office, letting out an overwhelming sigh of relief. When I approach the tall doors and step inside, the tension in my shoulders eases up a bit and is replaced by a tentative sense of belonging. I pause again to take in the view around me, looking up at the soft golden light filtering through the stained glass windows. The building reminds me of an old chapel. The air around me hums with possibility.

“This is it,” I murmur to myself.

My voice is muffled by the sounds of the bustling energy of the students around me. I stand up straight and square my shoulders, feeling determined.

“Everything’s about to change.”

Turning to the right, I see a sign directing me to the admissions office at the end of a long hallway. With an exhale, I slowly walk toward it to finalize my enrollment.

The thought of making my father proud warms my insides and calms my nerves. His belief in me has kept me going this last year. Cornelia Heights is intimidating, yes, but it is also a promise to be fulfilled, a chance to rewrite my story and honor the man who believed I was capable of anything.

Opening the door, I take in the view before me. A lady is typing busily away at her computer. She pauses when I walk through the door.

“May I help you?” She seems sweet, not nearly as judgey as I was expecting.

All of a sudden, the nerves jolt in my stomach.

“U-Uh, yes, I need to complete my online enrollment and pay tuition.”

“Of course,” she says politely, as she clicks away on her computer. “Name?”

With a shaky exhale, I reply, “Deirdre Ravencroft.”