Kiss of a Dark Moon by Sharie Kohler

bear. When her grandmother had ignored her so completely that she began to wonder if she was invisible, if her existence mattered at all. To anyone.
    But something kept her from going. Something besides being fifteen years old and having nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Her grandmother was her family. All she had other than Gideon. She couldn’t give up on her—on them. Not yet.
    Gideon had been there for her as long as she could remember, arms always ready to hold her when she needed someone. But he deserved his own space now. Even at fifteen, she had recognized that. So she had stayed put, taking comfort in sleeping in the same bedroom that her mother had once occupied, staring at the same rose wallpaper that her mother must have stared at. Watching reruns of The Waltons and telling herself a family like that wasn’t impossible. It could be hers someday.
    She’d stayed out of loyalty. Her grandmother was getting on in years. Kit didn’t like the thought of leaving her on her own. Nor could she imagine one day putting her in a home, a place where, ironically, she might feel the same loneliness and lack of self that Kit had felt living with her all these years.
    But selfish reasons drove her, too. She’d stayed out of hope—and desperation—that one day she would connect with her grandmother.
    She hurried up the drive. Using her key, she entered through the back door, letting the screen door slam behind her to alert her grandmother of her arrival. Her grandmother was the jumpy sort, always faintly surprised whenever Kit entered the house—an intruder, even after all these years.
    The smell of freshly brewed coffee hit her once she entered the kitchen. The aroma always reminded her of that first night the police brought her and Gideon here.
    She had sat at the kitchen table, her feet dangling inches from the linoleum floor as her grandmother prepared coffee for the officers. She had not lifted her gaze from the bloodstained hem of her nightgown, not even as they explained to her grandmother the events of that night—at least their version of events.
    She remembered watching the police officer’s lips move in slow motion as he explained to her grandmother that her parents were dead. Her father butchered, it would seem, by her own mother.
    Later, her grandmother put her in the shower, washing Kit with cool efficiency, uttering not a word as she rubbed her daughter’s blood from Kit’s toes with her chapped hands. With only the steady beat of water filling the air, Kit watched blood swirl down the drain.
    Not a word spoken in comfort. Not a word raised in rage or denial over the shocking news that her daughter had murdered her son-in-law—and been shot dead moments before trying to kill her own children.
    â€œWho’s there?” her grandmother’s voice, rusty from years of smoking, called out.
    â€œJust me.” Kit left the smell of freshly brewed coffee and entered the living room, the hardwood floor creaking beneath her shoes.
    Her grandmother frowned at her from the couch she occupied with Jack, her boyfriend for the last year and a resident of a nearby retirement community where she spent most of her spare time.
    The Food Channel blared loudly from the ridiculously large TV screen her grandmother had splurged on last year because she claimed to have trouble seeing the television set from the couch. As long as Kit could remember, her grandmother preferred the television at decibel-shattering volumes.
    Her grandmother looked surprised, faint annoyance lurking in her rheumy gaze. “Kit.”
    â€œGood morning.” Kit greeted her over Emeril’s signature shout-out.
    Her grandmother nodded hello, her gray wig so shiny it appeared lacquered. She brought a glass to her bright coral-pink lips and sipped. Even in June, she wore one of her brightly colored cardigans, purchased in bulk from the Dress Barn.
    â€œI thought you were house-sitting for Gideon