Winter (Four Seasons #1) by Frankie Rose
******
As of Tuesday, the killer’s wife, Amanda Breslin, is known to have relocated to New York City, leading many to ask the question—did she know what her husband was up to? Close friends of the Breslin family intimated that Iris, the only child to come from the Breslin marriage, has entered a fugue state and does not respond to outside stimulus. Doctors have given statements declaring that this is not uncommon. Many of them have witnessed such reactions when victims of abuse are freed from their captors. The psychological trauma the child could have undergone is apparently significant.
The library is quiet. Students sit with headphones plugged into the music players, heads bent over their work, while I stare at the crumpled piece of newspaper I keep in my bag. The paper is so thin where I’ve folded and unfolded it repeatedly over the years that it has worn through entirely over some of the creases. The Wyoming press had a field day with my dad’s story, and at the time I was so wracked with grief that I hadn’t been able to defend him. Everyone took my silence, my inability to breathe without hurting, as a sign that he’d done something to me. He’d never done anything but love me. I trace my fingers lightly over the folded, yellowed newspaper and tuck it back in between the pages of my text book, wondering. Wondering when I’ll be able to move on. If it will ever happen at all.
Fly high, Icarus. Well that’s a joke. Right now I have no hope of even getting up off the ground. It doesn’t bear thinking about what my dad would say to all this. How I am behaving and letting everyone else get to me. How I’m treating people. And by people, I mean Luke. I shove my books angrily into my satchel just as I catch sight of Morgan bursting through the doors. Her hair has fallen out of a loose ponytail, and her short-sleeved t-shirt is crumpled and twisted around her body.
“No running!” the clerk calls, but Morgan’s not listening. She charges straight for me, a wild look in her eyes. I stand automatically, registering that she’s crying.
“What is it? What’s up?” I ask, grabbing hold of her shoulders as she slams into me. With her face buried into my jacket, I can’t make out what she’s saying. “Morgan?”
She leans back and sobs silently. “Tate. It’s Tate.” She breaks down into uncontrollable fits of tears and collapses into my arms again. I struggle to hold her up, but her body is deadweight. Through the hollow ache inside me, and that small voice in my head asking, is this really happening? Is this seriously happening? I know. I know that Tate is dead.