***

The nightmares started a few weeks into summer break.

Tara was no stranger to nightmares. She'd had bad ones for as long as she could remember; vivid dreams of paralysis where she had something important she had to say but her lips wouldn't move and so she just stood there, mouth frozen, while everyone around her went away and there was nothing she could do to stop them. These new nightmares were different. For one thing, they didn't feel like dreams.

She woke up after the first one, breathing hard and not certain how she'd gotten from the street to her bed before she realized that it wasn't real, that she'd been asleep the whole time. She looked at her hands, puzzled by the lack of blood and dust. One hand crept to her throat; her pulse was definitely racing like she'd been doing something a hell of a lot more strenuous than just sleeping, and her skin was damp.

Too many monster movies, that was all, even if it wasn't like any monster movie she'd ever seen, and she'd seen a lot of them. She looked at the clock. 4:47. Even if she could go back to sleep, the sun would be up soon. Tara wasn't really a morning person, but she decided she could always nap if she got tired. She got out of bed, went to the living room, and curled up on the couch to watch infomercials and home shopping channels with the sound off until she figured she could move around the house without waking up her dad.

He frowned in her direction when he came downstairs. "What on earth are you doing awake?"

Tara hit the off button on the remote and unfolded herself from the couch. "Couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd just kill time until morning."

"What was it this time? Too much coffee, or did you just sleep in for too long yesterday?"

"Neither. Just a bad dream, that's all."

She was exceedingly thankful when he let it pass without comment. Sharing things like nightmares with him had been uncomfortable since the first time she noticed the flash of guilt that appeared on his face whenever she'd bring them up. Sometimes she wondered if it had something to do with her mother, but she knew better than to open that can of worms.

The next night she had the same dream and woke up in the same disturbed state. Tara was starting to miss the normal stable of nightmares; they just left her depressed, not twitchy and filled with some sort of dreadful anticipation. She didn't bother to go downstairs to kill time with the television, choosing instead to count the books on her shelf and reorder them by genre, author, and publisher until it was time to get breakfast.

The shadows under her eyes gave her away.

"You didn't sleep again last night, did you?" her father groused from across the table.

Tara shrugged her shoulders. "I slept some."

"More nightmares?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"Have you thought that perhaps you might want to avoid watching horror films before going to bed?" She loved it when her parent stated the obvious as though it were some pronouncement from on high.

"I'll try that." She'd also try finding things to do to distract herself from the long, boring summer days. If her mind was going to insist on being over active, she'd just have to give it something new on which to focus. Leigh probably had some ideas. Which reminded her, she wanted to move her bedroom somewhere a little more private--having one right next to her dad's meant he could hear everything she did. "I was thinking maybe I should change rooms. Maybe it's the light from the street that's doing it."

"You're alarmingly transparent at times, Tara. If you want to sleep in the basement bedroom, you may."

"That obvious?"

"More so. I haven't heard anything that flimsy in, well, in quite some time, at any rate."

Switching rooms didn't stop the nightmares, but it did leave her more room to distract herself. She disabled the alarm on the egress window, knowing full well that if everything went as she hoped it would, she'd need to use it to get in and out of the house undetected.

 ***

Any relationship has rules, some spoken aloud and spelled out with their own distinct set of punishments and consequences should they be broken, others never mentioned, formed from reactions to events.

Tara's relationship with her father had several of both. The first set included such things as "don't leave your things scattered around where anyone might trip over them," "no going out without checking in first," and "no taking the last cup of coffee without brewing another pot." This sort of rule had exceptions and loopholes, all of which she was quite adept at manipulating. The second set was trickier. By the time she turned 15, she knew better than to break any of them.

No asking about her mother; no wondering about grandparents, aunts, or uncles; no speculation about what her father had done at her age. No questions about the past, period.

She didn't even know her mother's name.

In the rare instances she was mentioned at all, it was always "your mother." "Your mother did what she had to do, she hadn't much choice" or "of course your mother loved you." Once, on the only occasion she'd ever seen her father drunk--right after the break-up with Amy, when Tara was doing her best to try and cheer him up--it was "you look just like your mother when you do that."

She looked in the mirror, trying to see it. Everyone had always told her she looked just like her father, but then, they couldn't really be expected to say anything else, could they? All she saw in the reflection was the same thing she saw every day. A tallish girl with an untidy mop of dark brown hair and a figure that wouldn't have looked out of place on a 12 year old boy. All things she could trace back to her father.

She moved closer to the mirror, ready to get on with the second part of the daily ritual. Maybe there was something of her mother in the eyes? They were the same shade of blue as her dad's, but the shape was different. His crinkled up when he smiled, where hers always looked a little sad. Maybe it was her mouth, its softness and hint of an overbite just slightly at odds with the gawky angles of the rest of her.

It had to be somewhere. He wouldn't have said anything if it wasn't.

She ended her reverie the same way she always did: a splash of cold water on her face and a grim smile. At least she knew damned well which side of the family had given her the gluttonous need to torture herself. In that, at least, she was very much her father's child. She was just more skilled than him when it came to hiding it.

There was still a third of a pot of coffee left when she made her way to the kitchen, as well as half a box of doughnuts. Sweet, starchy food. Dad was either researching or grading papers.

"Is it ridiculous to expect at least one of them to use a spell-checker?" he grumbled by way of greeting.

"English 97?"

"Yes."

"In that case, yes, it's ridiculous. Especially seeing as it's summer quarter. Why are there no maple bars?"

He didn't look up from the stack of papers. "I must have eaten them. There should be some jellies left, however."

"No thanks. I think I'll just have coffee."

She stared at him over her mug, comparing his features to her own.

Yes, the eyes were certainly different. The mouth, too.

"Do you have plans tonight?"

She blinked. She did have plans, as usual. Not that she'd wanted to mention them to him. She somehow doubted he'd approve of her latest hobby.

"I'm studying with Leigh and Emily. Catch up on our summer reading and all that. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I just thought perhaps you'd like to see a movie."

"Maybe some other time. Besides, I already told you, no more creature-features for me."

He frowned. "There are other types of movies besides horror, you know."

"I know. Like I said, some other time. We can have a 90's film fest and eat popcorn until our stomachs hurt, but tonight is for studying."

It wasn't a complete lie. They'd be studying, just not books.

He went back to grading papers. She was willing to bet he didn't know she knew he was only doing it to hide his disappointment. It had been just the two of them for so much of her life; the year and a half during which he and Amy were together was the only serious relationship of his that she could remember. Maybe if she hadn't been such a needy pain-in-the-ass of a daughter, it would have worked out. She hadn't intended to drive a wedge between them, not really. She'd liked Amy.

Introspection was, as always, a bitch. She rinsed her cup and brewed a fresh pot by way of silent atonement, then mopped the floor for good measure. The house was always cleaner when she was feeling guilty about something. If her father had noticed that peculiarity, he hadn't let on.

Satisfied that she'd done enough to make up for her minor deception, she retreated to the coolness of the basement. Somehow, despite an obviously English origin, her father was more than capable of dealing with the August heat, keeping the windows closed unless it made it above 90. She, on the other hand, was perfectly happy to spend summer curled up in the basement room she'd claimed as her own until night fell and the heat dissipated. She flopped on her bed and flipped idly through a book of Lorca's poetry, comparing the translation to the original and suspecting she could have done a better job of it. Although, seeing as it was an old edition, perhaps some of the nuances had been left out intentionally.

She ended up losing herself in the words and didn't have much time to get dressed before she was supposed to meet Leigh. Nothing seemed quite appropriate for their endeavor, so she settled on a tight pair of black pants and a tank top. Make-up would have to wait until she was out of the house. Dad might have his head in the books more often than not, but she suspected he'd know full well that heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick were not really study appropriate. She tucked what she needed into her purse and rushed out the door.

"If it gets late, I'm crashing at Leigh's, okay?" she called out as she left.

If it got late, Leigh would be crashing at Emily's. If it got late, Emily would be crashing at Tara's.

Round-robin was the oldest trick in the book. Tara felt giddy with getting away with it while at the same time wondering why it was parents were still so trusting. She said as much to Leigh when they walked to the bus stop. Leigh laughed.

"I don't know about your dad, but my folks are just kind of self-absorbed rather than trusting. I'm sure if they pulled their heads out of their asses and thought about it for five seconds, they'd have it figured out."

"Dad's not absorbed with anything but reading, grading papers, gardening, and me. In his case, I'm pretty certain it's an excess of trust." Tara had the grace to look a little bit guilty. "It's starting to drive me insane."

"What, the fact that he trusts you in spite of reams of evidence to the contrary?"

"No, that I'm fine with. In fact, that part I like. It's his lack of a life outside of work and me that's making me want to pull my hair out. And there aren't reams. Small piles, carefully hidden, but no reams."

Leigh snickered. "Let me guess: your dad wanted to hang out with you again tonight, didn't he?"

"He kind of deflated when I told him I needed to go work on my summer reading list with you and Emily, so yes, you could say that."

"Must be rough." Leigh's voice was distinctly lacking in sympathy. "All that love and affection. Ouch! Shit, Tara, why'd you do that?" She rubbed the spot on her arm where Tara's fist had connected.

"If you really have to ask, I don't think I feel the need to answer."

"Jesus, sorry to mock your stable home life. Next time, though? Pull your punches. I don't have any clothing that goes with the fresh bruise you've given me."

"Bite me. I barely touched you."

"If that's barely touching, remind me to never seriously piss you off. Any harder, and I think you'd have broken something. For such a string bean, you're pretty damned strong."

"Whatever." Tara tried not to think about the jam jar she'd shattered while opening, or the big hole in the plaster of her bedroom wall, the one she'd hidden behind her Pulp Fiction poster. All she'd been trying to do was nail up a coat hook. She changed the subject. "So, where's this one at? Emily meeting us there, or do we have to wait for her?"

"It's down on West Marg. Same place as three weeks ago, and she'll meet us there. I think she's trying to convince Ryan to come with."

Tara pulled out her compact and smoothed a quick coat of gloss over her lips before going to work on her eyes while they waited for the bus. "If she manages it, is he driving? I'm not so sure I want to walk home, and I'm starting to wonder if the neighbors have noticed the number of late-night taxi stops on our street."

"Yeah. I kind of think that's why she's trying to get him to go."

"And not, of course, because she thinks he's hot."

"Okay, Tara. Eww. Your taste may be that bad, but I don't think Emily's is." Leigh scrunched up her nose at the thought of Ryan, and Tara punched her again, careful to pull it this time.

"I didn't say I thought he was hot, did I? No." The arrival of the bus signaled the end of the discussion.

The place was already packed, the smell of sweat and incense clinging to every corner of the shabby warehouse. The first time they'd gone to one of these, Tara had been almost overwhelmed by guilt, the noise, and the sheer amount of sensation. She'd wanted to go home, until she realized she couldn't even hear herself think, and let the thrill of being somewhere so totally alien wash over her. As long as they stuck to some basic rules--no more than one or two drinks, no setting your drink down, no accepting drinks from strangers, and no leaving the building--it seemed pretty safe. Actually, it was starting to feel almost tame.

Leigh seemed to feel the same way. Tara noticed her flirting with a tall blond in an outfit that was just a little too retro-Tarantino, accepting a drink from him and tossing it back, then asking for another. Great. She'd have to remember to keep an eye on the two of them. Asking a guy for a drink just seemed to be a little too close to asking for trouble.

Midway through a long and not-very-danceable set, Tara noticed them sneaking towards the door to the alley. She brushed off the boy who was talking at her, and followed Leigh and her companion out the door. Leigh was stumbling and laughing too loudly, her motions loose enough for Tara to suspect there was something more than alcohol in whatever the man had handed her.

Shit.

The sight of them sloppily making out didn't alleviate her suspicions. She hoped she could figure out some way to get Leigh away from him and get them both the hell home without much of a fuss.

Then Leigh screamed and Tara stopped caring about whether or not there'd be a fuss, just so long as they could get out of there with their skins intact. She rushed him without thinking, pulling him off of Leigh and hitting him as hard as she could manage. Looked up at his face when he growled and stopped breathing. She'd seen that face before, seen it every night for over a month.

He's not real, he's not real. This isn't happening.

He hit her across the face and she flew backwards into the wall. Oh fuck. She could see Leigh trying to stand, one hand pressed against her neck and blood flowing from between her fingers. He was coming towards her... what had she done in the dream? Fuck. Fuck. She couldn't think.

He grabbed her, and she noticed how cold his hands were against the skin of her upper arms. She kicked him, twisting her body around and struggling against him until he lost his grip and she hit the pavement. Her hands reached out in blind panic and found a broken branch. She lifted it as he came back at her, pushing the jagged end of it hard against his chest, and then he was gone and she was covered in a soft layer of dust.

It couldn't be real; she had to be sleeping.

She could hear Leigh crying and turned to look at her. Leigh's face was ashen, the red gashes on her neck still seeping.

"Leigh, get up. We have to get out of here."

Leigh looked at her. She seemed to be having trouble focusing. "Where'd he go? He's gone, right?" She made no effort to stand, so Tara pulled her up.

"Come on. Up. You can do it."

Tara managed to get them several blocks away from the warehouse before her knees gave out. Leigh was shuddering, and her skin felt too cold. Tara dug through Leigh's pockets until she found the phone, then dialed the emergency number. There was going to be hell to pay, but she didn't have time to worry about that.

"Hang on, Leigh. It'll be fine. It'll all be fine." Tara pressed her hand against the wound and waited for the ambulance to arrive.

 ***

The telephone rang at 1:30 in the morning, jolting him from sleep.

"Yes, yes. I'll be right there."

He hung up and just stared at the phone for several minutes, trying to remember where he'd put his clothing before he'd gone to bed. He needed his wallet and his keys, and they were still in his pants. He checked the hamper twice before remembering that he'd left them in the bathroom. All things considered, it was a miracle he didn't run any lights on his way to the hospital.

The emergency room was crowded, full of drunks and junkies in various states of withdrawal and overdose. Under the harsh fluorescent light, they all looked like walking corpses. He hadn't been in an emergency room since he'd left California, not even when Tara was going through the usual childhood battles with ear infections. He'd forgotten just how much he hated the places.

As bad as they had been as a patient, they were infinitely worse as a parent. He looked around with bleary eyes, wondering what in G-d's name she'd been doing, and hoping she was all right. She hadn't said much when she'd called.

New stuff from Plei! Yay! I'm not the only one up at weird hours futzing with fic!

He spotted her huddled in a corner and talking to the police. With her face streaked with mascara and dried blood, she resembled a child caught playing a particularly macabre version of dress-up. Her shirt was ripped, and there was a bruise on the side of her face, but except for that, she seemed to be intact. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and walked towards her, fragments of what she was saying reaching his ears.

"He vanished." She sounded like she'd said it a thousand times and couldn't quite understand why they were asking her the question again.

"So you said, miss, but if you can remember anything about where he went..."

She cut him off. "He didn't go anywhere. I told you, he vanished."

"You're trying to tell me that you hit him with a stick, and he just disappeared?" It was obvious that the officer didn't believe that part of her story, writing it off as hysterics brought on by the attack.

The doctors had him sign some papers, everyone, it seemed, saw fit to lecture him on his skills as a parent, then they were free to go. They made the drive back to the house in silence. She stared out the window, his coat wrapped around her to cover the torn clothing. He could think of a million things he wanted to say to her, but none that would be of any use in the long run, and none that he wouldn't regret saying in the morning.

When they arrived home, he locked the door behind them then gestured for her to sit down. He remained standing, watching her, still unwilling to speak. She looked around at the floor, the wall, her hands, at anything that wasn't him. Finally, words came out of her mouth, haltingly at first, as she told him where she'd gone.

It turned out it wasn't the first time. It was summer, she explained. She and her friends were bored, and hitting the underground club scene had seemed, if not like a good idea at the time, at least like a mostly harmless one. He must have made some sort of sound, because her head jerked up and she met his eyes for a second before looking away and admitting that no, actually, it had seemed like a bad idea; that was the appeal. She started to babble about the nightmares that had been keeping her up earlier that summer, and he thought for a moment that the tangent was meant to explain why she'd been sneaking out of the house. Then she described the dreams, spoke of men with faces like deformed lions, their flesh cold and smooth, teeth sharp and cruel as they tore into the necks of their victims. She talked about striking them with weapons of wood, of watching with glee as they crumbled to dust, and the words hit him like drops of acid. Acid turned to ice when he realized that the tangent wasn't a tangent, just a prelude to her description of the attack.

He didn't want to believe what he was hearing, and tried to quell the first suspicion that came to mind. What she'd run into was blindingly obvious, but the meaning, even with the dreams, wasn't necessarily clear. One didn't have to be cursed with a calling to come out ahead against a vampire. One simply had to be lucky.

He repeated what the police had said almost verbatim, including their mention of Leigh's had claim that she'd seen the man escape. What Tara thought she saw and what had happened were not the same thing. They couldn't be. She tried to tell him that she knew what she'd seen, but he interrupted her.

"Tara, what you're suggesting is impossible." It didn't really feel like a lie. There were things, which, if she just avoided courting danger at every turn, she didn't need to know about. Seattle was a safe enough place, and frankly, they were things he couldn't begin to explain. She looked for a moment as if she was going to argue, then her shoulders slumped. "You're right," she mumbled. "It's impossible. Can I go to bed now?"

He nodded. "Yes, of course... and Tara?"

"What?"

"I think that this has been punishment enough for you, but you need to remember the rules. If you want to do something, for goodness' sake just ask, and if you think I'll say no, there's probably a good reason why."

They didn't discuss the matter again. She tried to say something about it a few days later, but he stopped her before she could get any further than "about the other night".

"Tara, this matter is closed. I trust there will be no repetition of your shenanigans."

She nodded, and changed the subject.

 ***

It was stupid. It was crazy. It was any number of things, none of them good. Tara didn't care. It was something she had to do.

Getting the address of the warehouse had been easy enough, and pinching money from Dad's wallet had provided enough money for cab and cover. She'd make it up to him somehow. The short, tight dress didn't leave her any place for the pieces of driftwood she'd sharpened, so she'd stashed them in the pockets of a black leather jacket she'd found in the attic.

Two weeks and the dreams hadn't stopped. If anything, they were more vivid. When she woke up drenched in cold sweat every night, she could still taste the ashes in her throat. It couldn't be from memory. When she'd hit whomever--whatever had attacked them that night, she'd been too shocked to breathe.

She recognized some of the revelers from earlier warehouse parties, some of them just from around. She had felt better when she didn't see any familiar faces at these events. What had felt like slumming was starting to feel like home.

Tara looked around, trying to spot anything different about the crowd. It was no use. They were all pale, slim, and unhealthy. Nothing to set them apart from one another. Nothing that gave her a hint as to what she was looking for. It had happened. No matter what anyone said, it had happened. There had been no knife, no weapon. He hadn't run away.

He'd savaged Leigh, and Tara had stopped him. The way she always did in dreams. And that had been that. He was gone, no body, no trace save for a smattering of dust.

She wasn't crazy.

It had happened.

A dark-haired man in the corner caught her eye. He was staring at her as if he knew her, although she was certain she'd never set eyes on him before tonight. She'd have remembered. He was that kind of guy.

"Can I get you anything?"

She jumped, startled by the voice. She'd been so lost in her own world; she hadn't even noticed him coming over to her. Not that she minded.

"Scotch, neat."

"Aren't you a little young for that?"

He must not have been to very many of these to ask a question like that. "Look around you, buddy. Aren't we all?"

He was older than she'd thought. Too old for this crowd, in years at least. He looked at her with opaque brown eyes for a minute before going and getting her what she'd asked for.

"If I'm going to be corrupting a minor, least you could do is tell me your name."

"Tara. That's a pretty name; it suits you. You know, you might want to be careful, talking to strangers in a place like this."

"Why, do you bite?"

"No, but some of the other people here do. You should watch your back."

Then he was gone. She downed her drink, trying to figure out if he'd been warning her or warning her off. Whichever it was, she wished he'd given her some sort of clue as to what to watch for, apart from her back. Not only had he not told her anything useful, he hadn't even told her his name.

She set down the empty glass and took to the floor. Eyes closed, she let the thrum of the bass surround her and fill her. Her mind relaxed and she remembered why she kept coming to these things long after the rush of bad behavior had faded and passed. There was a comfort in the darkness and the noise, company in the loneliness of the crowd.

She felt someone next to her, felt the slight disturbance of the air around her as it slid close to her, smelled the Nag Champa and smoke and somehow knew it was one of them, one of the creatures from the nightmares. Cool fingers brushed the heavy fall of her hair from her neck, and she opened her eyes and smiled.

It was good-looking in this face, smooth pale skin and deep hazel eyes, a shock of auburn hair and full red lips. Pretty, very pretty. She wondered how much of it was due to cosmetics, and how much it owed to being what it was.

"You remind me of a ballerina."

Pretty, but none-too-bright. So much the better. She widened her eyes and raised her brow, letting her mouth part slightly in question.

It leaned in closer, so close she should have felt it exhale against her skin. She felt nothing, not even when it whispered, "It's your neck, so long and elegant," in her ear. She shivered, whether at the absence of breath or the slow caress of its fingers on her collarbone, she couldn't be certain.

"Come with me," its voice was as warm as its touch was cold. "Let's go somewhere a little more private."

She let it take her by the hand and lead her through the crowd and out the small door that lead to the alley. The door closed behind them with a dull thud, and the thing shoved her hard against the metal, cold lips forcing her mouth to open as it used one knee to push apart her legs. A taste of something coppery hit her tongue. Blood. She wondered if it was her own. The face above her twisted and changed, teeth scraping against her lip until she could feel her flesh tear and didn't have to wonder where the blood was coming from.

It pulled its mouth away to speak, voice still all warm seduction when it told her she should feel free to scream.

"No one will hear, but you might feel better."

She pulled the bit of sharpened wood from her pocket, thrusting the thing between its ribs when it pulled back to strike, the impact hard against her fist before softening as the thing crumbled to dust.

"I thought for a while there you hadn't listened to me."

Her cryptic companion from earlier stepped out of the shadows, where he had no doubt witnessed the whole thing. She glared at him, tucking the weapon back in her jacket. Blood from her lip was smeared down her face, bits of dust clinging to it. It wasn't quite how she wanted anyone to see her.

He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the worst of the mess away. "You like cutting things that close, or do you just have a thing for vampires?"

Two weeks spent thinking she was crazy while everyone denied the evidence of her own eyes and suddenly here was someone not just giving name to the nightmare, but acting like it was an everyday thing?

"No on both counts. I just had to be sure."

"Sure of what? What he was--or what you are?"

"What do you mean, what I am?"

His lips curved in a slight smile. "You'll find out soon enough. Here." He handed her a small box. "You'll be needing this. Until you find out why, though, you might want to think about avoiding the late nights."

He walked away; pausing when she called out, "Wait! You still haven't told me your name!"

"You can call me Liam. It's as good a name as any."

She watched him leave, thoughts flying through her brain too quickly to take hold. Not wanting to wait for a cab, she started walking. It was an hour's trek uphill, but at least it would give her a chance to think. She opened the box she'd been clutching. The large silver cross with its sturdy chain forced one thought to take firm root.

He'd been looking for her. He probably knew more about what was going on than she did. Of course, that wasn't saying much. Maybe she was losing her mind, after all.

She pulled the scuffed leather of the coat tight around her. The buzz of thoughts was fading, leaving her all too aware of the nervous clenching of fear in her gut and the taste of cheap scotch, blood, and ashes in her mouth. She was shaking so hard she could barely walk.

If she wasn't losing her mind, they were real. She'd killed two of them. She'd enjoyed doing it.

Her stomach turned in on itself, and she doubled over, splattering the scotch, blood, and bile on the pavement. He'd told her she'd find out what she was. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

When she got home, she stared at the house for a long time before letting herself in through the basement window. The narrow city lot and carefully-tended garden looked all wrong, too peaceful and serene, the cross-gabled roof standing out too sharply against the pink-stained city night. Instead of looking like home, it looked like a facade from a community theatre production. She fell asleep still trying to force the image from her mind.

//The dream was different; wherever she was, it was warmer, the air heavy instead of crisp, and the terrain flat instead of rugged. She spun, arms and legs moving in ways she didn't remember learning. A quick spin and flip and a backwards jab took care of one of them. The dark-haired girl beside her took care of the other before flashing her a cocky grin. Turned around and they were in an alley, the red-haired creature from the club rushing them, but then he shifted and was someone else, someone human. Heard her voice--no, not her voice, but coming from her mouth--heard a voice scream "Faith! No!" as the blood pumped from the hole in his chest and spilled from his lips which were suddenly Liam's. "It's what you are" spilling out with the blood before he burst into flames.//

She woke up covered in sweat and still queasy from the night before. Fighting the urge to vomit, she dressed and stumbled upstairs to the bathroom. This time when she looked in the mirror, she didn't bother trying to find anyone other than herself.

Her father was waiting for her when she entered the kitchen. He watched with searching, reproachful eyes as she poured her coffee.

"Where were you last night, Tara?"

The quiet, clipped voice, accent more pronounced than usual, set a thousand alarm bells off inside her head.

"Last night?"

"Don't attempt to play dumb with me, young lady. Someone rang for you late last night. You were not in your room when I went downstairs to inform you of that fact, and before you attempt to fob me off with 'I must have been in the bathroom', I heard you come in well after two. I'm only going to ask you this once more, and I expect an answer: where were you?"

"I was out."

"Without telling me or checking in? And you still haven't told me where you were. Tara, you know the rules."

She did. Even the new one: "do not mention the incident". There was nothing she could say by way of an explanation that wouldn't involve breaking it.

"I'm sorry."

"As am I. I'm sorry you don't trust me enough to tell me whatever it is that you've gotten yourself into, but it has to stop. You'll move your things back into your old room by tonight, and until school starts up again, you're not to leave the house without me. I trust I've made myself clear?"

She'd expected as much. All things considered, house arrest was more of a relief than a punishment. She gave a nod of understanding and watched his face soften.

"Tara, I'm sorry I haven't been a better father. I don't mean to be harsh, but I'm at something of a loss as to how else to deal with this."

Nothing like a fresh punch of guilt in the gut to wake a girl up after a long night. She pressed a kiss on his forehead and ruffled his hair. "It's nothing you've done, Dad."

As true as the words were, she wondered why they rang hollow in her ears.