I stiffened the moment my bedroom door crept open. His shadow shifting against the wall meant one thing, "Mom was working late."
As if they heard my muted cry, the cicadas screamed, their calls carried in the wind, bustling through my window, urging me to visit and infecting my thoughts.
I knew what to do.
"Not here," I whispered, my twelve-year-old voice failing seduction. I slipped from the covers, knowing he'd follow.
Feeding him a whorish delusion that this time, there'd be no fight. I slid into the backseat, seizing a sliver of the broken glass window, and waited.
Summer passes, and I still taste the damp soil masking the decay in that car. An odd comfort.
Cops come with questions. Where is he? Where did he go?
I stay silent, just like he taught me.
I smile because, like the things he's done and the car's existence, "Those answers," No one knew.