Traceless by Debra Webb Read Free Book Online

devoted father.

    As much as Emily's parents loved her and wanted to believe they felt just as she did, they didn't. Holding that against them wouldn't be fair. It wasn't their fault.

    It was hers.

    They waited expectantly for some revelation that would show progress on her part. A mere smidgen of hope that she intended to divert her life toward some more conventional course could close this argument right now. Tension would recede and the parental scrutiny zone would drop back down to curiously indulgent .

    But Emily couldn't give them what they wanted.

    "I have to do this." Emily placed her napkin on the table next to her scarcely touched plate. Inside she was shaking, but outside she held on to her calm to avoid inciting their suspicions further. She'd gotten really good at that kind of deception over the past few years. "If I don't do what I know in my heart is right, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to move on. I realize you can't understand that, but that's the way it is."

    Another visual exchange in that unspoken language gained through thirty-five years of marriage transpired before her father took the next turn at battle. "Dr. Brown would really like you to come back to counseling. He believes that's the best way, Em. Your mother and I agree."

    Counseling. It was like a bad penny; it showed up every time. She'd tried therapy. It hadn't worked. Once Dr. Brown had released her, a whole year after her four-week stay at the Calhoun Treatment Center, she'd never gone back to him. She didn't intend to now. Wouldn't that be doing exactly what her parents feared? Going backward?

    "You'll have to excuse me." Emily stood. "Thank you for dinner," she said to her mother, then managed a tight smile for her father before walking away from the table.

    Deeply troubled . She didn't have to look back to know, Emily could feel the weight of their troubled gazes on her back as she left the room. The telephone rang, but she didn't slow her retreat. It wouldn't be for her. She hadn't been here long enough in the last decade for anyone to associate her with the address or the number.

    She no longer belonged in Pine Bluff.

    She didn't actually belong anywhere.

    Her mother's voice drifted down the hall behind Emily. The caller was obviously Emily's brother, James. The change from troubled to elated in her mother's tone related the identity of the caller without the mention of a name.

    James was in medical school, was on the dean's list. James hadn't prematurely self-destructed. Too bad his success couldn't be enough for Emily's parents.

    Emily went into her room and closed the door. She leaned against it and surveyed the space she barely recognized. It felt more like a hotel. She'd spent her senior year in this room, but there was no connection... nothing. She'd slept here and dressed here and that was about it.

    Her mom had gone out of her way to try to make this new house home... this new room Emily's room. Some of her stuff was carefully arranged on shelves or pieces of furniture. Cheerleading trophies. A neatly framed picture of Bon Jovi, another of Mel Gibson. Stuff. Junk. Nothing that mattered. The items that were important had been hidden away. Packing away all those mementos of the past had been her mother's idea of moving on. Unfortunately, nothing new had filled the emptiness. No diplomas matted and framed for bragging rights. No wedding pictures or snapshots of grandchildren to show off to visitors.

    Just a room. With beige carpet. And beige walls.

    There was nothing that stood out or defined the space or... Emily. She was beige... almost invisible.

    The panic started its dreaded creep beneath her skin. Her heart reacted, bouncing into a faster rhythm only to flail
    helplessly like a fish dropped on the bank right next to the river's edge. Relief was in sight, but you couldn't quite reach it no matter how hard you tried.

    The overwhelming sense of doom would descend next, and then there would be no stopping a