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through the fire, and comes at me. He screams, swallowed in a gaping jaw of burning fire.
    I dart into the bank of smoke, not sure where I’m going. A hand grabs my wrist, but I recognize the familiar grip of Jonathan. His face, protected behind a gas mask, comes within inches of mine. He slips another mask over my nose and mouth and jerks his head.
     
     
     
     

Chapter Four
    ~Brenden~
     
    Today.
     
    I stare at the casket—dark wood, brass handles—covered with flowers. All kinds of flowers. So many the chapel smells like the floral shop Mom used to go to.
    Mom.
    I buried her three months ago. I’m still bruised inside. I haven’t caught my breath.
    Now Dad. I keep waiting for his death to hit me.
    This place is filled with people I don’t know. They sit behind me, to the sides of me. They stare at the casket, too.
    Or maybe they’re looking at the large, black and white portrait propped on the easel. The man in the photograph is young. He wears a suit and tie. His hair is slicked back. His light blue eyes hold the lens in a slanted, concerned way—like he’s content. Dad looks like someone important. Admired. Famous.
    For a second I wish the picture would come to life.
    Next to me, his wife, Judy, stares at her hands, clasped in her lap. Blood red nail polish with gold diamonds at the tips decoupage her nails. Her spicy perfume competes with the scent of the flowers, the two odors embedding in my head. I’ll never smell any of these scents again and not think of this day.
    Dad’s funeral.
    I haven’t cried.
    I’m dry after losing Mom.
    Judy’s dabbed at her eyes a couple of times during the service. But at home I haven’t seen her cry. Maybe reality hasn’t sunk in yet. I think she’s faking it, she was in show business after all.
    I wasn’t close to Dad. I only moved in with him and Judy after Mom died. He lived in Bel Air. Mom and I lived in Redondo Beach. Not that the miles in between have anything to do with our lackluster relationship. He was eighty-seven, I’m eighteen. Our relationship sucked.
    I read—for the twelfth time—the piece of paper wrinkled in my hand: Jonathan Lane — Beloved friend. I suppress a snort and crush the paper in my fists—again. No mention of Mom? Jonathan leaves behind his devoted wife Judy Bernard Lane and son Brenden. My spine bristles at the implication that blood connects us. Judy’s as motherly as a gerbil.
    And what’s this bull about Jonathan Lane’s genuineness? Sterling integrity? He was a trusted friend.
    Too bad he wasn’t much of a father.
    “I trust you, Brenden,” he’d said the final time I saw him—in the hospital—the last day he was coherent. “You’re a good man.”
    Man.
    Rehearsed lines—nothing more.
    Hollywood bullshit.
    I don’t care about who these people are. I’m jealous. They all knew Dad better than me, longer than me. I feel cheated. I got nothing but the last three months of his life.
    Now it’s over.
    A surge of anger rises up inside me. I fantasize throwing off the flowers, ripping open the casket, grabbing Dad by the lapels and demanding answers.
    I look away. Breathe.
    I’m angry with him for meeting Mom—what kind of man looks at a girl thirty years younger than him? Then gets her pregnant.
    I’m angry because he only saw me when the court ordered it: once a month.
    Once.
    A.
    Month.
    Once a month that spread out to once a year.
    Birthday phone calls. Christmas cards.
    Then three months ago Mom died and I went to live with him and Judy.
    Sure he gave Mom a few hundred bucks a month for child support. He even helped when she was diagnosed with cancer. But after everything she didn’t have any money and I’m as good as broke, and without extended family.
    A palpable weight of loneliness heaves on my shoulders. I can’t forgive him for leaving her. Us. I hate that she lived her life alone. I hate that he married the gold-digger.
    I glance at Judy, sniffling with plenty of drama. I resent the performance. She has