Jonny Quest looked apprehensively out the window, peering down at the grounds of the compound. He saw her sitting there, all alone. Again. With a shudder he drew his curtain tightly back in place, locking the light out. It didn’t help that today was Friday the thirteenth. He hated Friday the thirteenth. No matter how stupid it was, Jonny Quest couldn’t help it. He wasn’t superstitious, oh no, he’d been through far too much to be a superstitious kook. But somehow or another, things just never managed to work out for him on Friday the thirteenths.
    Go figure.
    He pushed the curtain to the side once more and let his eyes fall on her again.
    “Not really your favorite day either, huh Jess?” He sighed deeply, feeling very tired all of a sudden.
    Jonny Quest padded over to his bed and got back in, pulling the covers up under his chin. Some days it was just better to stay in bed. The world would be all right without him for a day. Unless it was one of THOSE days and then they’d all be blown up before he could do anything ANYWAY, so it didn’t much matter.
    Did it?
    “Jonny!” Jonny pulled the thick comforter over his head, snuggling down into the darkness, blocking out his father’s deep bellow. “JONNY! JONATHON QUEST! DO YOU HEAR ME?”
    “Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away,” he mumbled, hoping desperately he’d locked his door. There was an abrupt jangling at his door and he heard the catch stick.
    “JONATHON! OPEN UP!” Jonny Quest breathed a sigh of relief as the door stayed fast. He didn’t need the pressures of keeping together right now. Today of all days he didn’t need the pain of going downstairs to see her face. He didn’t think he could pretend much longer.
    “Goodnight, Friday the thirteenth,” he muttered as he turned on his side, pillow held over his head. Moving out from beneath the bed, Bandit hopped onto Jonny’s feet, curling up into a ball. Jonny shifted accordingly, making room for the small animal at his side. “Hello Saturday the fourteenth.”
******
    Benton Quest kicked at the wall in frustration. It was only eight am and he already wished he’d never gotten up. He’d been on the phone since half past five with the Pentagon, explaining that no, he didn’t actually have a background in nutrition and no, he’d never actually worked with Professor Michael Fitzgerald, but he was still pretty certain burritos were not the next leap in rocket fuel. A fax from an old friend in Peru asking if he really needed his primate partner prototype back and if he’d consider settling for a toaster instead had been next. The lab had seemed a whole lot weirder after that and, seeking refuge, Benton had fled to the lighthouse, hoping he could finish his rest cycle in one of the Questworld chairs. The morning mail had been waiting for him outside the door though, a stack of bills strewn across a large package.
    Picking up the package, Benton had stood studying the tag a long time, buried in thought as the soft morning breeze blew in from the woods. All at once he realized what it meant and took off running toward the cliff. With a flying leap he threw the package at the ocean, eyes following the arched descent of the burnt orange box as it tumbled through the air, small white tag flapping in the breeze.
    “Koalas are cuddly my butt,” he muttered, glaring at his son’s door as he recalled the bizarre incident. His hand smacked firmly against the wood paneling. Not wanting to think about what else had happened that morning. He did any way.
He’d tumbled back inside for a cup of coffee, tripping over the doorstep as he dragged himself in. Various bills had fluttered about, white envelopes glinting. The living room had been shadowed, the sun barely creeping over the horizon on the eastern side of the house, quiet with the early morning. He’d muttered and grumbled loudly, rubbing his sore knee as he stalked out. Oblivious to everything around him. He’d been halfway through pouring his coffee before he even realized he wasn’t alone. He remembered turning slowly, very slowly, only to find his best friend sitting at the kitchen table, staring out into space, face covered in dry tears.
    He hadn’t even needed to ask Race what was wrong- Following the other man’s gaze to the lone figure that sat nearby the winding stairway to the beach, he’d known.
    Well, if he had to trudge through a Friday the thirteenth, then everyone else would have to. “JONATHON!” he yelled, banging a hand against the door. The picture frame next to him jumped off its post and crashed to the ground, shattering into a thousand glittering shards of glass splinters.
 “JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONAAAAAAAAAAAAATHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON QUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEST!”
******
    Roger “Race” Bannon sat quietly at the kitchen table, the coffee at his side long since gone cold. His eyes watched the red haired girl as she sat there, face turned outward toward the sea. He couldn’t make out her features, the lines blurred between her mouth and nose and eyes. But he knew the face well enough, he’d looked at it every night they’d been together since she’d been born. He knew every inch of her, from the small scar behind her knee from the time she’d been thrown from a helicopter onto a picket fence to the patch of freckles across her chest. She’d loved it when he tickled her there. Eyes skimming over her face, he traced the well-worn paths from her eyes, the glow of tears residing as strongly in his memory as if she were crying now. Swallowing hard, he fought against the welling guilt that clogged his throat.
    This was his fault.
    His baby hurt because of him, because of the things he’d done. And there was nothing he could do about it.
    Nothing at all.
    The boy behind all of this pain was dead, shot through the chest by one of Race’s own pieces. The piece he’d left to protect them. Lot of good that had done.
    Even now he felt the throb in his trigger finger, the finger that wished he’d been the one to pull that trigger instead of Hadji. Poor sweet, well-meaning Hadji. The boy he’d help rescue from the streets of Calcutta, the boy he’d helped raise into a young man. His son of the heart.
    He’d only meant to protect her.
    “Oh Hadji,” he said softly, eyes filling again. “You saved her life, but was it really worth it?” He raised a hand and wiped away the tears. He had to stop that kind of thinking.
    She was alive, that was all that mattered. Alive, they could help her do something for herself. Of course she was upset, she’d had it pretty bad for the boy. Of course she blamed herself, victim’s guilt complex or whatever they called it. Of course she just wanted to be alone to cry, she needed to grieve for him, no matter what a piece of lying, manipulative shit he’d turned out to be. He was her boyfriend and, Race knew now, she’d loved him.
    Race’s hands clenched into fists as he saw his little girl brush at her face, head falling down into her palms. He watched her shoulders shake as the wind whipped her hair around her head. “I hate you, Jeremiah Surd,” he whispered, eyes narrowing to slits. “Not for the way you screwed up my life. No. I hate you for everything you’ve done to my new family, the way you’ve attacked my boys and hurt my daughter. You were a sick, demented old fool and I hope your happy about what Julia had to do to your son to accomplish all this.” He swallowed, forcing the lump down his throat even as his lip curled up, the sneer the best he could manage around the tears that were tumbling down his face again. “Enjoy each other in hell.” He didn’t bother to wipe the wetness away this time and let it come. “You deserve one another.” He put his face in his hands and let loose the sobs that had been threatening to break out all morning long.
******
    Hadji Singh breathed deeply, searching for the inner peace meditation normally brought. In its place he found only the chaos of his emotions, swirling through his mind. Sighing, he stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling. Somehow the quiet of the lighthouse’s upper most room was more distracting than the normal pandemonium of the compound had ever been. Then again, Hadji felt more confused than he’d ever been.
    It had been almost a month since the incident and yet he could not forget it. The nightmares woke him every night, jerking him awake, covering him in cold sweat that even the morning’s light could not dispel. Normal school days helped a little, taking his mind from the craziness of the household as it members sought to support each other. But days like this, days when there was no school, blurred the days into nights. And it all came back to him. The overcast of the sky. The first drops of rain against frozen soil. The three silhouettes posed against the horizon, locked together in time.
    It was there before him any time he was still. Any time he ceased to move, to work, to fight the memories of that day on the hill all came flooding back, as sure as if it was night. That was why his meditation would not help- There was too much silent stillness to deal with.
    “Most teenagers like conference days,” he murmured, eyes drifting toward the windows. He caught sight of her then, sitting alone on the cliff edge, knees pressed to her chest. She looked so small against the scenery, so far away and alone. A castaway on her own deserted island of pain and thought. How he wished he could take it all back. That he could go back to that day and not shoot him. That he could stop Jer from ever pulling out that gun and raising it to her head. That he could keep them all in the house, happy and laughing together over their breakfast, glad to be alive and together. He wished he could make it all right for her, for him, for everyone. But he couldn’t. If there was one thing Hadji had learned during his time with the Quests it was that death was the end. The only finality the world had that could not be over come. And that was exactly what faced them now, death. A force more powerful than even their determination.
    “But if I hadn’t killed Jer, he would have killed her.” He sighed, rubbing his hands over his arms. The loose sweatpants he wore did little to protect him from the early December chill that permeated the walls. The cold told him it was time to be getting back to the house. Maybe there was something for him to do there. Something to keep his mind off of everything.
******
    Jessie Bannon shivered, pulling her thick winter parka closer. It was always so cold out here- But that was why she liked it. The biting of the cold against her flesh made her feel real, reminded her that she was alive. Some days it was hard to remember that. Most of the time now she felt like she was wandering around in some kind of dream. Like everything was a big joke that the boys were playing on her. Jer wasn’t really dead, he’d never tried to shoot her. Any moment now he’d drive up, jump out of his car and grab her up, hugging and kissing her and laughing that way he did. His eyes would flash that stormy blue color they went when he was happy and he’d yell ‘surprise!’ and tell her it as all a gag. Then she’d kiss him back and toss him in the ocean and go pummel her brothers.
    But out here at what felt like the edge of the world she knew it was true. Here, high above the crashing waves that pounded against the beach, eating away at the very cliff that supported her, she knew that she was awake, that life was as screwed up as she imagined it was. The details of that day came back to her even as the spray hit her face, leaping hundreds of feet from the water line to smack at her. She could see him standing there with the gun, explaining why he had to kill her. Looking so distraught, as pained as she felt, as if he were being eaten away at from the inside out. The gunshot cracked in her ears and red crimson flashed before her eyes as she died- Only to realize she’d never been hit. And then there was Jer, just like he always was, lying on the ground, blood seeping out around him. Life flowing out on the ground.
    She tried to open her eyes, to see that it wasn’t real, but she couldn’t. Her eyes were open and the cold was biting into her flesh, eating at her fingers and nose and lips the way the pain ate at her heart. She didn’t know what to do about it, not any of it. Her family was falling apart because of her and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Jessie stared out at the murky waves that billowed across the line of gray water, the white peaks cresting outward, knowing that if she jumped things would only be worse.
*****
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