Their pack mate had died because of me.
Two people I knew had died today, and my dad was in critical condition.
And it’s all your fault, growled the wolf inside my head.
We drove in awkward silence until we pulled into my neighborhood and I noticed something strange. Even though it was after dark, almost all my neighbors were outside of their houses. Some sitting on their porch steps. A few standing in the street. They looked like they were waiting for something. Almost like they didn’t know what to do with themselves until it happened.
I rolled down my tinted window to get a better look, and peered out at the Headrick family, sitting on their porch, just staring out into the night. When Jack Headrick saw me pass by in the backseat of April’s car, he stood and motioned to his wife and kids. Much to my surprise, they started following the car as we drove down the street. Other neighbors followed in a quiet procession.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Slade seemed to flinch at the sound of my voice breaking the silence.
“They know,” Brent said, speaking for the first time since I’d gotten into the car. “Reports about the explosion have been on the radio all afternoon. I imagine the television, too. Someone must have leaked your dad’s name to the press. They all know what happened to him.”
Slade pulled into the driveway of my house. The long line of people following us suddenly felt like a funeral march. I sat there, unable to get out of the car yet. I wanted to shout at them through the rolled-down window to go away. I didn’t want them here. I didn’t want to see the concern on their faces. Didn’t want to answer their questions. They’d all want news. They’d want to know why my dad had been at that warehouse in the first place. They’d want someone to tell them what they could do for us. They’d want someone to care that they cared.
He’s your father. What right do they have to invade your space, acting like they’d almost lost him, too?
I opened the car door and bolted toward the house, careful not to run unnaturally fast, though. Not with so many people watching. I just wanted to get inside, away from all these people. But as I approached the porch, the front door opened and April stepped through the doorway. She shook like a nervous cocker spaniel, and her puffy face was splotched with red tearstains. So much for keeping this from April. Before I could react, she padded down the porch steps and threw her arms around me in a bear hug so tight it reminded me of my old friend Don Mooney.
“Oh, honey, are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, tearing up over the fact that her first question had been about me. “But I just want to go inside. I need to get away from them.”
The moonstone pulsed in my pocket between us as April rubbed her hand up and down my back. It felt so reassuring—the first real hug tonight—that for the first time this evening I didn’t feel quite so alone.
“They’re here because they need to be,” April said.
I turned my head and looked out at the yard. By now, most of the neighborhood had converged on my lawn, although a few people hung back in the street. It reminded me of when Baby James had gone missing, the way practically the whole parish had shown up to help search for one of their own.
I realized then that the wolf in my head had been wrong. My dad belonged to these people, too. He was their pastor—their father, too. They had every right to feel like he belonged to them. They had every right to be concerned. If this were a werewolf pack, Dad would be their alpha.