Free The Atheist's Daughter by Renee Harrell Page A

supposed to be my personal space. Years ago, Mom promised she wouldn’t enter this room without my permission. Years ago, I believed her.
    Fuck.
    What use is a journal if you think someone else is going to read what you’ve written? You can’t be totally honest if you suspect someone is spying on you.
    I love having a place to share my thoughts, my best and worst, most wonderful and awful memories...because I can’t share them anywhere else. Now I wonder if I dare write another line, another sentence.
    There are hundreds of pages here, hundreds of entries, but, if somebody finds my words, none of it will remain secret. The cops will be called, just like at school, and I’ll be back in the embrace of Dr. Ron before I get a chance to have a real life.
    I wrote about everything here. My first kiss. My first date, my first boyfriend, my first...
    Everything.
    Fuck, fuck, fuck.
     
    *
     
    So what do I do now? Do I hide my diary and hope no one finds it? Do I find a box and lock it up? Or do I destroy it, feeding my memories into the shredder, sheet by sheet?
    I’d like another option, please. One that acknowledges my right to a little privacy. But that’s never going to happen, not unless I get my own place.
    I can’t wait to leave here. Can’t wait to leave Winterhaven. So that’s what I’m going to do.
    But, first, I need to find out who the glass people are. Find out why they’re here. What they’re doing. Because they scare me, more than a little, and I’m the only one who can tell what they are.
    Whatever that is.
    Unless, of course, none of what I see is real and I’m completely, totally batshit.
    I guess that might be good to know, too....
     
     
    Chapter Fifteen
     
     
    At daybreak, Kristin walked to the café. The front of the building was closed and its upper windows were dark.
    She abandoned the sidewalk for the dirt lane that served as the café’s back alley. A new fence blocked the back of the structure, its wooden slats spaced in six foot sections with a heavy metal post supporting each of the divisions.
    This is new, she realized . Since when did Piotrowski’s get a fence?
    The structure was built from Douglas fir, the same inexpensive wood her mother had once used to build a rabbit hut. Untreated, the rabbit hut had rotted after two hard winters.
    This crappy stain job won’t protect the wood for long. Maybe the ghost people don’t care.
    Exactly how long do they intend to stay in Winterhaven, anyway?
    The double-gate to the fence was open. A truck was parked inside the yard, its sides emblazoned with stylized images of apples and carrots. The truck’s driver wheeled a loaded dolly down a metal ramp. Walking beside him was another one of the crystalline men.
    Stepping closer to the fence, Kristin peered between two of the slats. This glass man was bigger than the other ghost people she’d seen. His powerful arms swung easily from a thick barrel chest. His head was square-shaped, with thick lips and a heavy nose. The driver spoke in a low voice to him.
    The big man barked a short, loud laugh. “Just like a woman, right?” his voice boomed out.
    The receiving door opened. Martin Piotrowski gestured at the driver as the glass man plodded forward, pretending not to see the older man. Drawing closer, he threw his wide left shoulder into Martin. The blow knocked him backwards, causing him to hit the door frame and slide to the ground.
    “Careful, old-timer,” the glass man said as the driver pushed his cargo inside.
    Martin spoke softly, the bigger man looming over him. Finally, the man extended an arm to help him to his feet. When he stood, the glass man clapped him on his back, a little too roughly.
    “My first name?” the glass man said. “It’s Martin. Same as you, eh?”
    Schhhct! Finishing his lie, a clear layer fell over the big man’s mouth. A second layer dropped over it and then a third, falling atop one another like so many glass dominoes.
    “I don’t like to use the name