Northern Lights

drain, her eyes glaze—and cursed himself. But when he started to take the printout from her, she jerked back, shoved at his arm with her free hand.
    "You don't need to look at that. Let's just put it away."
    She needed to look. Maybe the air was trapped in her lungs, and maybe her stomach had pitched down to her feet. But she needed to look. Deliberately she took the rest of the photos out, lined them up on the table. Then she picked up the whiskey, downed it.
    "I know who this is."
    "You recognize him?" Without thinking, Nate scooted his chair closer to hers so they stared at the photos together. "You're sure?"
    "Oh, yeah. I'm sure. It's my father."
    She shoved away from the table. Her face was very pale, but she didn't quiver. "Pay for the drinks, will you, chief ? I'm going to have to put a hold on that steak dinner."
    He moved fast, scooping the printouts back in the envelope, digging out bills to drop on the table, but she was already through the lobby and at the top of the steps when he caught up.
    "Meg."
    "Back off a minute."
    "You need to talk to me."
    "Come up in an hour. Room 232. Go away, Ignatious."
    She kept climbing, didn't allow herself to think, didn't allow herself to feel. Not yet, not until she was behind a locked door. There were things she didn't believe in sharing.
    He didn't follow. Part of her brain registered that, and gave him points for restraint and maybe sensitivity. She went into the room where she'd already dumped spare gear, locked the door, added the chain.
    Then she walked directly into the bathroom and was miserably and violently ill.
    When she was done, she sat on the chilly floor, her forehead braced on her knees. She didn't weep. She hoped she would, hoped she could cry at some point. But not now. Now she felt raw and shaken and— thank God—angry.
    Someone had killed her father and left him alone. For years. For years when she'd lived without him. When she'd believed he'd walked away from her without a second thought. That she wasn't good enough or important enough. Smart enough, pretty enough. Whatever enough seemed to fit at any given time when the missing of him was a hole in her belly.
    But he hadn't walked away from her. He'd gone to the mountain, something as natural for him as breathing. And died there. The mountain hadn't killed him. She could have accepted that as fate, as destiny. A man had killed him, and that couldn't be accepted. Or forgiven. Or left unpunished.
    She rose, stripped, and running the water cold, stepped into the shower. She let it stream over her until the fuzziness in her head cleared. Then she dressed again to lie down on the bed, in the dark, and think about the last time she'd seen her father.
    He'd come into her room where she'd been pretending to study for a history test. As long as she was pretending to study, she didn't have to do her chores. She'd been sick of chores.
    She remembered, even now, that quick lift in the heart when she saw it was her father rather than her mother coming to check on her. He never nagged about chores or studying.
    She thought he was the most handsome man in the world, with his long dark hair and his fast grins. He'd taught her everything she believed really important. About the stars and climbing, about survival in the wild. How to build a campfire, how to fish—and clean and cook the catch.
    He'd taken her flying with Jacob, and it was their secret that Jacob was teaching her to fly.
    He looked at the book open on her bed where she was flopped on her belly. And rolled his eyes. "Boring."
    "I hate history. I have a test tomorrow."
    "Bummer. You'll do okay. You always do." He sat on the bed, gave her ribs a quick tickle. "Hey, kid, I gotta take off for a while."
    "How come?"
    He lifted a hand, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.
    "How come we need money now?"
    "Your mom says we do. She's the one who knows."
    "I heard you fighting this morning."
    "No big deal. We like to fight. I'll pick up a couple of jobs, make some moola. Everybody'll be happy. A couple of weeks, Meg. Maybe three."
    "I don't have anything to do when you're gone."
    "You'll find something."
    And she could tell, even as a girl of thirteen she could tell, he was already gone in his head. His pat on the head was absent, like an uncle's. "We'll go ice fishing when I get back."
    "Sure." And she was sulking, ready to shrug him off before he could shrug her off.
    "See you later, cupcake."
    She had to force herself not to spring up, to rush after