The True One

Chapter 1

Verity

The first time I blacked out was mid-shower, hair foamy with honeysuckle shampoo, humming a melody that had been stuck in my head all day. I couldn't help myself; singing was what I did, even if it was the theme song to my father's odd choice of a favorite show: Dawson's Creek.

I raised my voice and gave it my all, belting out the chorus. I got as far as the word "wait" when I found myself no longer singing.

I was mid-refrain.

Now I'm mid-scream.

Freezing water pelted my back.

When had the hot water run out?

How had the shampoo been entirely rinsed from my head?

I shut the water off and braced myself against the tiled wall. Screaming ended and dizziness began.

My father knocked on the door. "You okay, Verity?"

Nope.

"Yeah, just a touch of hypothermia." Wrapping a towel around myself, I stepped out of the tub. "You need to have the water heater looked at."

"The brand new one they installed before I moved in? That's not the problem." His muffled voice conveyed a familiar annoyance. "You showering for 45 minutes, however..."

"What? I just got in. Okay, maybe fifteen minutes ago, tops." Nudging the door open a crack, I set my scowl to match his. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"You lost track of time. Again." As a teen, I'd had a history of coming home past curfew. He was never going to let that go. "Meanwhile my water bill is going to be sky high."

"And who pays your water bill?" And the rest of his utilities. And the mortgage. His whole damn life.

He let out a long sigh. "Dinner's almost ready. Glad you're here, Champ."

My scowl cracked. I hadn't earned that nickname because I excelled at sports, or spelling bees or mathletes. It was the war of words in which I always came out the victor. Dad and I had spent a good portion of my childhood on opposite sides of heated arguments. At twenty-one, and several years removed from living with him, I now accepted that not every quarrel had been his fault. Still, he let me have the last word, whether I deserved to or not.

That probably said a lot more about his character than it did about my debate skills.

Fifteen minutes versus forty-five... There'd been something... off about that shower. Or more likely, there was something off about me. That wasn't a pleasant thought, and so, I did what I usually do—I put it in a little drawer inside my mind and slammed it closed.

My father had always been an accomplished cook. In my youth, I may have been starved for a nurturing presence, but I was never starved for a nurturing meal, despite our paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle.

Now that there was enough money in the bank to afford my own place in town and this charming house in the burbs, I'd made sure to get Dad what he'd always wanted: a gourmet kitchen. Granite countertops, custom-made cabinets, top of the line appliances, and more Le Creuset cookware than he could have dreamed of. He stood in his element, stirring a sauce on the stovetop while whistling to himself.

This wasn't so bad. If I could get through an overnight visit with him and our biggest ordeal was a tiff about water consumption, well then, sign us up for father and daughter of the year.

"Penne All'arrabiata." Dad brought the spoon to his mouth to taste test. "Oh yeah. I did not hold back on the flavor. You're going to love this, Hon."

The garlicky aroma made my mouth water. "Damn, I didn't know how hungry I was."