Free No Second Chances by Marissa Farrar Page B

burglar was currently trashing our house, it wasn’t as though he was going to answer me.
    I entered into the entrance hall. “Hello?” I called again. “Dad?”
    The place felt empty, no sense of life coming from within its walls. I hurried into the living room, every inch of my being alert for any sound. Ears straining, nostrils flared, muscles tensed for fight or flight. Even my skin felt as though it were hyper-sensitized, as though I might be able to feel the movement of someone in the air before I heard it. This was a safe neighborhood, and rarely did we hear of a break-in, but there was always a first time.
    I entered the living room and my heart sank. Beside the couch lay an empty bottle of vodka and several empty cans of beer, crumpled up and tossed.
    “Ah, shit.”
    Dad had gone on another binge.
    That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. It was like him to have a couple of days off work and then have a heavy drinking session. It was as though he was able to restrain himself while he was working, and keep a handle on things, but then as soon as he didn’t have the responsibility of going to work, all his restraints went out the window.
    What was unusual, however, was the fact the front door was open and the car was gone.
    I prayed someone else was driving, and the door had swung open in the wind. Even letting someone else drive would get him in trouble, but not half as much trouble as if he was driving drunk out of his head. I dreaded the thought of him being on the road, with the innocent people he might be putting in danger. If he ran someone down, he’d never forgive himself, and I’d never forgive myself for not doing something about his drinking sooner.
    Clinging to some final threads of hope, I raced around the house, praying I’d find him slumped in a drunken stupor somewhere. I took the stairs two at a time, but when I checked all the rooms, including my bedroom and the bathroom, it became clear he was nowhere in the house.
    I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. There would be time for self-pity, and anger, and frustration later. Right now, I just needed to find him. I wished I could call Taylor, but she was still mad with me because of the whole Cole Devonport thing, and anyway, I couldn’t call her, because that would mean having to tell her the truth about Dad’s drinking, and I couldn’t risk doing that. Word got around too quickly, and if someone got wind he was drinking too much, it would be the end of everything for him. I couldn’t say a word to anyone.
    One thing I knew for sure, the house was empty. Wherever my dad was, he wasn’t here.
    I grabbed my purse and keys, and ran back out of the house. I hesitated at the door, wondering if I should lock it behind me or not. If Dad returned and didn’t have any keys on him, he wouldn’t be able to get back in. Then I reasoned that he must have his house keys on the keychain for the car. Hell, he could just sit in the car for all I cared. At least it would mean he’d gotten home safely.
    I knew I wouldn’t be able to cover much ground on foot, so I set off at a jog. There were a few places I knew my dad liked to go—the cliff-face overlooking the cove, or down at the park. I prayed he hadn’t gone to a bar. Even smashed drunk, I hoped he had enough sense to stay out of the center of town.
    I checked all the usual places, the dread inside me thickening to a sludge which seemed to trickle through my veins. I was exhausted now, my jog slowed to a walk, and I was barely dragging my feet off the ground. I was so angry with my dad for doing this to me—he was so selfish when it came to booze—and I was frustrated by my own lack of action. I’d tell him, I decided. I’d tell him he needed to get help, and we couldn’t go on living like this. I wished I could give him some kind of ultimatum to push him in the right direction, but then I remembered how people only got help when they wanted it themselves. I had a feeling my dad was lying to himself as