"Lucy," I whisper again, this time to myself.

I try my hardest to read her as she walks away.

***

I wish I had spoken to her. I wish I had the right words. Even now as I stand at her front door, sweating like a pig from the bike ride after school—I still can't think of anything to say. It's been a few days since the funeral. Today was the first day that she was back at school. Not that I was paying attention or wondering where she was, because I wasn't.

I knock three times, but no one answers. I can hear kids yelling and screaming. One might even be crying. I knock again and the door opens. One of the younger kids looks up at me, his eyebrows bunched, but he doesn't say a word. "Where's Lucy?" I ask him. He opens the door wider and points to the kitchen, then runs away.

If I were a murderer, they'd all be dead.

*

She's standing at the island counter with food everywhere, but that's not what I notice. It's the endless tears falling freely.

She looks up when I walk in, the same expression on her face that her little brother had when he opened the door. "Who are you?"

I ignore the irritation at her not remembering me. Or recognizing me. Or the fact that she barely acknowledges me before wiping her face and continuing whatever she's doing.

The kids come into the kitchen, running circles around the island. They're loud. And annoying. She drops what's in her hands and lays her palms flat on the counter. Her eyes shut tight while she inhales a huge breath.

And I can sense it—The storm is coming.

I grab one of the kids by the arm. "Where's your dad?" It's the same kid from the front door. He points upstairs and pulls out of my hold, and then runs away.

"Who are you?" she says again.

"Cameron."

She looks up and I swear it; time stands still while our eyes lock.

Then a kid screams and it breaks whatever the hell just happened between us.

"I just want it to stop," she whispers. I don't know if it's for me or her, but whatever the reason, I want to make it stop.

Bringing my fingers to my mouth, I whistle. Loudly. My gaze never leaving her.

Silence.

Her eyes go wide. "Who are you?" she says for the third time.

"Cameron," I repeat. This time slower, louder. Maybe my first instincts were right, maybe she is hearing impaired.

She shakes her head, the corner of her lips turning down. "No, I mean I know your name's Cameron. But who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

Lincoln speaks for me, "He's our coach."

The boys are standing in the kitchen now. I hadn't even noticed when they came in.

I turn back to Lucy and roll up my sleeves. "What do you need help with?"

Her eyes narrow and her lips thin to a line. "I don't know who you are or what you're doing here, but we're fine. We don't need your help."

I don't know what reaction I was expecting from her, but that wasn't it. Before I get a chance to respond, a baby's cry interrupts us. She lets out a frustrated grunt before washing her hands and walking away.

"Hi Cam!" Lincoln says, his smile the same as I'd always seen. It's never faltered. I wonder if he fully comprehends the fact that his mom's dead. Gone. Forever.

"Hey bud." I try to keep my voice level so he doesn't see how much I pity him right now. "What do you think we can do to help out your sister a little?"

"Just stay out of her way," the oldest kid says. "She doesn't want our help."

I nod. It makes sense now—her reaction to me. I take a look at each of them and try to justify what I'm doing here. But there is no reason—and right now, I don't think it really matters.

I look out the kitchen window and into their endless yard. "You guys got anything we can use for bases? We could go out, hit a few balls, catch a few—"

The boys are out the back door and setting up before I can finish my sentence.

I follow them, not wanting to wait around and have her ask me to leave again. Minutes pass before the back door swings open and she sticks her head out. "You guys have homework," she yells, holding her youngest brother in her arms. The older ones moan but don't argue; they just file back into the house one by one.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "I didn't know."

"You don't know a lot," she says, slamming the door shut after her.

"She's sad." I look down at Liam, now standing only feet in front of me. "We all are."

"It's okay," I try to console, "You guys are allowed to be sad."

"But she's really sad. She gets so sad that it makes her sick."

CHAPTER TWO

-LUCY-

"That guy's staring at you."

I tune Claudia out and hope that she doesn't bring it up again. I don't even know what guy she's referring to but I don't care.

She sighs before asking, "What are you reading?"

Only now do I notice that my e-reader's in my hand, switched on, words displayed... but I'm not reading them. My mind's too occupied by other things. Like the fact that I packed Lincoln a cookie for lunch and not Liam, which ultimately means that when I go to pick them up, one of them will have a black eye. Great.

She sighs again and it pulls me from my thoughts. "I have something to tell you," she says, and the tone in her voice has changed. She's not talking boys anymore. It's something more.