It was mid-afternoon by the time I stepped out of the shower. I had laid in bed for I don’t know how long trying to sleep. I’d kept tossing and turning, probably keeping poor Bethany awake all night as well. All the questions and emotions from the night kept washing over me in waves of lonely confusion.

How could my dad leave me like this? What had happened to make him leave? Did it have something to do with the Pushers - whoever the hell those are? Is it somehow connected to me being attacked? That thought sent a chill through my body. Was my dad in danger? Was I?

The sun was just starting to rise when I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep. I only managed a few hours of sleep before my dreams woke me up with a racing heart and cold, clammy skin. By then I was too worked up to go back to sleep.

It had taken some work to convince Bethany to take me home. She wanted me to call the police, or tell her parents - which would have still led to calling the police. And she definitely didn't want me to be alone. But after an hour or so of back and forth, she finally agreed to drive me home after she cooked up something for us to eat. We were both so tired and emotionally spent that we didn’t talk much as we ate or on the car ride to my house.

So when I wrapped the towel around me and looked at myself in my bathroom mirror I wasn’t surprised by how washed out I looked. My pale skin only accentuated my red, puffy eyes. Deciding I wasn’t in the mood for makeup, I brushed my teeth and threw on an old pair of jeans and a black tank top.

In the kitchen, I poured a cup of coffee into my favorite mug. There, on the counter beside my mug, was my father’s. With a pang I thought about all the mornings that dad and I had sat at the kitchen table, drinking our coffees and discussing the coming day. And with a sad smile, I remembered how odd people thought it was that I had started drinking coffee when I was like five years old, but to me, it was a reminder of special times with my dad. Besides, exactly when is it inappropriate to introduce a child to humankind’s greatest achievement?

I brought my coffee to the table and sat staring at the plain white binder in front of me. I had to take several deep breaths before I was able to force myself to open it. I just wasn’t ready to dive headfirst into facing my new reality, but I also knew I didn’t have a choice.

I could almost hear my dad’s voice say, “Ignoring a problem won’t make it go away, Firecracker. It is better to face it right off. Often you will find that the dread of the thing is worse than the thing itself.” This time, though, I was sure that the reality was going to be just as bad as the dread of it.

I opened the binder with shaky hands and started scanning through the pages one by one. I had no doubt my dad had put it all together. Not only were the notes in his handwriting, but everything about the binder was a perfect reflection of him. Nearly every detail I would need to live on my own was organized and divided into categories, separated by those little colored dividing tabs - each labeled in perfectly precise handwriting.

I flipped to the first section labeled “Finances”. The first page was a copy of a bank statement. The name of the credit union and the account number were highlighted and there was a handwritten note of a name and extension of the representative that he usually spoke to. Behind that was a letter authorizing me to discuss details of the account with the bank and the bottom of the letter had the seal and signature of a notary.

My jaw dropped when I saw the balance in the account. It was a lot of money, like a lot a lot. I had no idea my dad had so much money saved up. We weren’t rich or anything. I couldn’t go out and buy a yacht, but I was sure that it was enough to live off of for a good while, especially if you lived as frugally as we always had.

And suddenly it dawned on me: My dad riding his bike to work nearly every day, his little lunch sack with a couple of baloney sandwiches, his old, outdated clothes, the late-night freelance projects - all of it was for this. My father had scrimped and saved every penny, he had worked countless extra hours while I slept. He had provided me with a comfortable life while making sure he was as physically and emotionally present as possible, all while denying himself nearly any type of luxury and working his fingers to the bone. And it was all for this. He must have been planning it for years - possibly my entire life.

The words on the pages blurred as tears filled my eyes. He had planned this. Planned to leave me. Part of me was awed by the sacrifices he had made to make sure I would be ok, but part of me was angry too. Why couldn’t he have told me? He had years to explain it. He could have warned me. He had made sure that financially I would be okay for some time, but he had done nothing to prepare me for what it would feel like when he was gone.

I pushed those thoughts from my mind and wiped my face with the back of my hand. There would be plenty of time to worry over those questions, I was sure. But right now I needed to read through the rest of the information my father had left.

The second section was labeled “Mortgage.” Like the first, it had a statement with the important information highlighted and a notarized letter authorizing me to access the account. Behind that was a clear, plastic zipper pouch with a small stack of checks. I pulled the checks out and flipped through them quickly. Each one was signed and filled out for the exact amount of the mortgage. All I would have to do is write in the date and put them in an envelope - there was a second zipper pouch with envelopes already addressed and stamped - and drop it in the mailbox. I counted the checks. Thirty-six! Thirty-six checks. My dad had planned for the mortgage to be covered for the next three years!

I went through the sections one by one, each of them identical in its attention to detail and preparation for the future. There was a section labeled “Vehicle,” one labeled “Utilities”, and another labeled “Insurance” - which covered health, life, car, and homeowners insurances.

The very last section was labeled “Lawyer”. It contained just a single sheet of paper with the name Phillip Greene, along with a phone number and a short note.

If, for some reason, I am unable to return I have made arrangements with Mr. Greene to file the paperwork to transfer ownership of everything to you. If it comes to that just know that the house, the car, none of it matters to me. Do what you need to do to take care of yourself.

I love you.

I stared at the last three words for the longest time. I stared until the dam broke and I again began to drown in the overwhelming feeling of being utterly alone. I slammed the binder closed and shoved it across the table with a curse. My head dropped into my hands and I cried. Again. I cried tears of fear and sadness. I cried tears of hurt and anger. I cried until there were no more tears left to cry.

I don’t know how long I cried. I don’t know why I stopped. But it’s always like that. Eventually, the tears have to stop, and eventually, you have to go back to living. The problems don’t go away while you’re crying either and eventually you have to actually face them.

I pushed myself from the table and stepped into the bathroom to wash my face. I stared in the mirror for a minute. “Ok, Delilah, what are you going to do?”

I wanted to do nothing. I wanted to lay down on the bed, hide under my covers and sleep until my problems went away. I wanted to stomp my feet and flail my arms like a toddler that doesn’t want to eat their vegetables. I wanted to throw things, break things, and scream at the empty house. I wanted to curl into a ball and let the world spin on.

I wanted to hug my dad and have him tell me everything was going to be alright.

But I couldn’t do any of those things. Or rather, the ones I could do wouldn’t make anything better. So, I decided to try to fix the problem. I decided to find my dad.

Even just making the decision settled something inside me. I’ve never been one that was comfortable with things outside of my control. I couldn’t control that my dad had left. I couldn’t control how he left. He had asked me not to tell anyone, and while I didn’t understand why, it wasn’t something he would say lightly. So, I couldn’t control who else was looking for him. But I could control whether I looked for him and deciding to find my dad gave me a little of that control back. I could control my actions and that was what I was going to focus on.

The first thing I needed was information. If he didn’t want me telling anyone, it was likely that he hadn’t told anyone either. Which meant there weren’t many places to get information. But, I did have a lead. It was a small lead, microscopic to be honest, but it was a lead.

If my dad had made arrangements with a lawyer for the eventuality of his disappearance, then there had to have been some kind of conversation. I was sure he hadn’t laid out his entire plans, or the probable reasons for his future disappearance, but maybe he had let something slip. Maybe, just maybe, he had said something that would give me a clue as to where to begin looking.

The most I could hope for was a bread crumb, but when you’re starving even a crumb can give hope.

I quickly threw a little makeup on my face. Just enough to try to hide the evidence that I’d been crying all day. I rummaged through my closet to find a shirt that would hopefully look somewhat “professional” - at least enough so that I wouldn’t look like a little girl searching for her daddy. I fumbled with the buttons trying to get it on, the excitement of having a plan making my fingers shake.

Once I looked as made up as I was likely to get I headed back into the kitchen. For a moment I thought about ripping the note about the lawyer from the binder, but the idea of losing one of the last things my dad had written to me made my heartache. I decided to just take a picture and leave the binder as it was.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and as I did someone knocked on my door. I tossed my phone on the table and stepped to the door. I expected it to be Bethany coming to check on me. I couldn’t imagine anyone else knocking on the door. I mean, come on, who shows up at someone’s house anymore when you can just text?

I opened the door and froze. Before me were eyes the deepest blue I had ever seen, like a clear sky the moment before exploding into the colors of a sunset. “Are you Delilah Waverly?”

I blinked and realized I had been staring. Quickly a face came into focus around the eyes. A strong, clean-cut face with a square jaw and neatly trimmed blond hair. I took an involuntary step back when I realized just how far my neck was craned to look up at this man, he had to be nearly an entire foot taller than me. He was wearing a blue button-up shirt and dark blue jeans and he looked like he had stepped right out of a magazine.

I mean, he was gorgeous. Perfect. Almost obnoxiously so. Not a single hair was out of place. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in his clothes or scuff mark on his shoes. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms and he had one hand in his pocket. The perfect picture of casual confidence.

I felt my face flush red and my eyes dropped down to the floor - oh, God. I’m barefoot. God this is embarrassing.

“Uh, are you Delilah?” He asked again.

“Way to make this awkward, Delilah.” I thought to myself. “Uh, yeah …” I said out loud.

“Delilah, you need to come with me.”

I jerked my head up and blinked at him in confusion. His face was a perfect mask of neutrality. There wasn’t the slightest hint of humor or concern, but there wasn’t any sign of malice either. Just a solid wall of determination.

“Uh … what?” I asked ever so eloquently.

“You need to come with me.”

I won’t lie. I was a little thrown off by how god damn pretty the dude was. I mean, I’d never really considered myself to be the type to be attracted by the hulking, testosterone-filled caveman. But I couldn’t help but notice how his shirt pulled tight over his chest and biceps and I had a sneaking suspicion that everything beneath that shirt was really firm. And he was just so damn pretty.

But I also have never liked being told what to do. My teachers used to say I had a stubborn streak a mile wide and my nerves were already raw. I felt the fuse of my temper ignite.

I stuck out my jaw defiantly and said, “I absolutely do not! Who the hell are you anyways?”

His mask cracked and a look of impatience crossed his face. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way.” He made a little gesture with his head to a car left running by the street.

Bright red warning lights flashed in my head. No way was I going to get in a car with this guy. I slammed the door in his face and locked it before running to the kitchen table to grab my phone. I heard the door handle rattling behind me and the man cursing from the other side.

My hands were shaking so bad I kept entering the wrong password to unlock my phone. I screamed when I heard the door open behind me. I frantically tried to punch the passcode in a couple more times and screamed again when a notification popped up stating my phone was locked because I’d entered the wrong code too many times.

“Those little door locks are mostly for show, you know. Next time use the deadbolt. It will at least slow most people down.” The man’s voice came from behind me with an almost teasing tone.

I scrambled around the table to keep it between the two of us and tried to will my phone to unlock quicker. From my place in the kitchen if I tried to run in any direction he would be easily able to cut me off. I was stuck and my only chance was to get my phone unlocked and hope I could keep space between us long enough for the police to come.

The man squinted at me appraisingly, then down at the phone in my hands. “Look,” he said. “We don’t have time for this. You need to come with me, and you need to do it now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! Get out of my house!” I yelled, half hoping a neighbor or passerby would hear.

He started slowly walking around the table, his hands up as if he was trying to show he wasn’t a threat - the man that told me to get in his car and broke into my house. As if I had never seen an afterschool special or was a complete freaking moron or something. I moved as he moved, keeping an equal distance around the table from him.

He glanced around the room and must have realized that if he kept walking his circle I would end up in the open and able to make a run for the door because he took a couple of steps back, forcing me back against the wall again.

“Delilah, don’t be stupid. We don’t have much time. Just come with me before something bad happens.”

He reached for the table with both hands and I realized he was going to fling the table out of the way so he could get to me. I panicked. But it wasn’t just fear. My fuse had reached its end and I was angry. And when I went to grab the table I slammed my hands down on the edge. Several things happened at nearly the same time.

First, the table flipped onto its side - I don’t mean it tipped over and fell. The entire table jumped a foot into the air, rotated ninety degrees, and crashed back down. Now I’ve mentioned that I am not a dainty little flower, but I’m also not what you would consider “muscular” or “really all that strong” - basically I have the upper body strength of a field mouse on Xanax. So, the second thing that happened was my own squeal of surprise.

The third thing that happened was the dishes and silverware in the cabinets beside me rattled like the aftershocks of a tiny earthquake and a picture frame fell off the wall beside me. This was quickly followed by the stranger taking a stumbling step back like the earth had dropped from under him for a half-second and an invisible hand shoved him just a little.

It was all back to back to back. Like ripples from a stone dropped in water, affecting things closest to the point of impact first and expanding outward. It could all be traced back to the epicenter. And the epicenter was me.