Always Watching

fire. It was so hot.”
    My mind filled with horrifying images, people crying for help, flames racing through the building, and Lisa trapped. “I’m sorry, baby. I know you tried.”
    “I had to leave them there—” She broke off in a sob, and I knew this pain would be with her for a long time, the survivor’s guilt enormous. She pulled herself together, started again. “I crawled under the smoke, and smashed one of the back windows. Outside, I saw how bad the fire was, and I knew…” She paused, her face tortured with memories. She swiped at her eyes, taking some breaths. “People died that day, lots of people. But I lived, and I just—” She shook her head, looked down at her toast. “I just didn’t understand why God would let me live after everything I’d done.” Tears were rolling down her face.
    I wanted to comfort her, but I sensed she needed me to be silent. I rested my hand on her knee, gave it a squeeze. She set her hand on top of mine.
    After a moment, she continued. “I ran away, hitchhiked all the way back to town. I was living on the mainland, doing drugs and trying to forget everything. One day I woke up, passed out with some guy, and I still didn’t understand why I was alive. I started thinking maybe I was saved for a reason, like I was supposed to do something with my life.” She fiddled with her toast. “I moved back and found a program.” She smiled at me through her tears. “I’ve been sober for over a month now.” I smiled back. She said, “It’s been hard, really hard. I wanted to call you, but I needed to know I could get through this, that I was done for sure.”
    I nodded, sad that she’d felt like that, but understanding.
    “I was also scared that maybe you wouldn’t want to see me ever again, maybe you hated me for the things I said to you that last time.”
    “No, Lisa, I could never—”
    “Wait, Mom. Please. I still have to make amends.” She cleared her throat, started again. “What I did to you, all those years. I made your life hell, and putting you through all this, I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me. But I’m trying to change. And I need help.”
    I cupped her cheek, looked her straight in the eyes so she could see the truth of my words, the love. “Of course I’ll help you. Whatever you need.”
    She started to cry again. “I’d come by the house sometimes, trying to work up the courage to talk to you, but I was terrified that you’d tell me to go away.”
    I put it together. “Were you in my shed?”
    Her cheeks flushed. “I was looking at your trees. I wanted a piece of one, so I could have something of yours to keep with me. I came back another time just to sit with your things.”
    “So it was you who Kevin chased off?”
    “Yeah, he was fast. I’d borrowed my friend’s car.”
    “It doesn’t matter, none of it matters.” I hugged her to me. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
    She relaxed into the hug. “Can I come home?”
    I closed my eyes, savored the words, the smell of my daughter’s hair.
    “You can always come home.”

 
    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    I’d like to start by thanking my readers around the world for their support and encouragement. I truly appreciate all the great e-mails you send me and love staying in touch on Facebook and Twitter. This can be a lonely job, with hours at the keyboard, so it’s nice to feel a connection with the people who are actually reading my stories, and not just the characters who are walking around in my head.
    Every writer also knows how important it is to have good resources—we are lost without them. Again, I was very fortunate to find some great people willing to share their time and knowledge with me, even when I swore I just had “one more question.” In no particular order: Stephanie Paddle, Dr. Jane Saunders, Virginia Reimer, Constable J. Moffat, Sergeant R. Webb, Mark Tucker, Jonathan Hayes, Ken Langelier, Marcia Koenig with the King Country Search Dogs, The Victoria Cool Aid Society, Deborah Gunnarsen, Lisa Winstanley, Steve Unischewski, Sylvia (Murphy) Unischewski, Don Godolphin, Nina Evans-Locke, and Lori Treloar. Any mistakes are mine.
    A special thanks to Tamara Poppitt of Poppy Photography, who spent a couple of days with me traipsing around Victoria and Shawnigan Lake and taking photos of all the locations in the book.
    I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Carla Buckley, a fabulous critique partner and friend, who weathers the storms with me, and