Some scenes in this book may be distressing and upsetting for readers, therefore, reader discretion is advised. Because of the nature of the themes, it is suitable for readers of 18+.

TRIGGER WARNINGS

*Open-door spice. This means that there are explicit descriptions of sexual activity.

*Themes of abuse, stalking and harassment

*Attempted sexual assault.

*Murder and violence.

*The female main character experiences PTSD, grief and trauma.

*Strong language.

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

“Are you sure that we are awake? It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream”

-A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 4, Scene 1

Dusk creeps in, the evening heat clinging to the thick, humid air. I inhale deeply—big mistake. It scorches my lungs, leaving my throat raw and dry.

The parking lot lights flicker, stuttering against the pavement like a broken signal.

I shift in the passenger seat, peeling my thighs off the sticky leather. This is taking too damn long. My fingers drum against the door handle before I slam the horn, the sharp blare slicing through the heavy silence.

With a sigh, I twist the radio dial, searching for something tolerable. The air conditioner wheezes out a useless puff of warm air, rattling like it’s on its last breath. Useless.

“Come on!” I moan wearily, glancing around the parking lot, it’s empty now and quiet. The shops will be closing soon and the last few people milling about are heading home for the day. Summer is in the air, I can almost smell the BBQs that are no doubt being lit in every backyard right now. It makes me feel nauseous with hunger. I force myself not to think about all the people at home in the cool shade or lounging by pools, having fun and relaxing with their friends. I have only a few hours until Melissa’s birthday party, and I would hate to be late.   

Two glamorous, confident women strut through the parking lot. They’re electric, especially the one with a cigarette dangling from her lips. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the fading sun to get a better look. They catch me staring and laugh, making me blush, so I pretend to inspect my fingernails. The second woman has poker-straight blonde hair cascading around her shoulders. She's arguing with someone on her phone and looks pissed. As they close the distance, I slide down in my seat and pretend to check my phone. Straining my ears, I hear them giggle and curse, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I want to be like them when I’m older—sexy, independent, free. With their snug jeans and tight t-shirts, they radiate sexiness and confidence; I bet men take notice. I bet Robbie would fancy them too. Especially the redhead, with the blood-orange tattoo on her right shoulder. I watch them disappear behind the car and feel a sense of loss when they’re gone from sight. I hope I have friends like that one day. Maybe Melissa and I could be just like them. I drum my fingers on my lap and check the texts on my phone.

Five minutes later, the car door swings open.

“Sorry about that, I had a few bits to pick up and some dry cleaning. Where shall we go next?” she sings, throwing her bags onto the backseat.

“Home,” I say. “You said you would only be five minutes!”

“Well, you could have come in with me; you didn’t have to wait here on your own,” she tries to reason with me. “Hey, I thought this was our fun day out?”

“Your fun day out you mean?” I say, looking at all the bags she has.

“Can we go? I don’t want to miss Melissa’s party,” I whine.

“Oh, come on Ruby, we will find something. We just haven’t found the right one yet. And I’m sorry to say this, but Robbie is trouble. Don’t go hanging out with him too much tonight, ok? Stick with Samuel, he’s a sweet boy.” She pulls her long auburn hair into a bun and begins fanning herself with her hand.

“Samuel?” I laugh in disbelief. “He’s funny and all, but come on. Me and Samuel? Ha! Can we please go now?”

“No. Even if we have to drive over to Philly and I bribe the stores to stay open, we’ll find you a dress. There’s time,” she says with a no-nonsense tone.

I ignore her and shrug.

“Oh, come on, don’t be silly. We’ve still got two more shops to visit, and I’m confident we’ll find you the dress of your dreams.” She applies ChapStick and checks her reflection in the mirror.
I ignore her and turn up the car radio. She tosses the ChapStick back into the central compartment, takes a breath, and sighs. “Ruby McDonall don’t behave like a small child,” she scolds, turning off the radio.

“I am a small child.”

“Okay, well, small children don’t get expensive dresses. They don’t go to house parties with their boyfriends, do they? Shall I take you to the park instead?”

I tut and continue to look away, my mind drifting back to the two women from earlier.

“Ruby, we’ll find you the perfect dress, I promise. But nothing revealing like the last one,” she says, bringing the car to life. “It wasn’t revealing!” I sulk, even though I know it was. She laughs and faces me, placing her hand on mine.“

Ruby, you’re 13, not 30. If your father saw his little girl in a dress like that, he’d have a heart attack! “I nod, staring blankly out the window, feeling guilty for being so dramatic—especially since she took time off work to come with me. Before I can apologise, I notice people, two are the women from earlier. They are hovering at the back of our car, talking in hushed, angry voices. It's almost 5pm. Despite my mom’s promise, I know we won’t make it to Philly now, and the summer sales will close by 6pm. A knot of nervousness tightens in my stomach. Robbie will be so mad if I don’t show. He texted me earlier, saying not to be late because he has something special for me. If I don’t show up, he’ll end up hooking up with Vicki Mathers. She’s been drooling over him for the past month, making sure everyone knows she has a crush on him.

“Oh, shoot!” My mom says, rummaging frantically through the shopping bags on the back seat. “I think I left my bag in the shop.” She kills the engine and is about to get out of the car when a man appears at her window.

“Excuse me, ma’am, can you tell me how to get to the post office?” A man with an out-of-town accent suddenly appears, tapping on the window. He’s wearing a leather jacket, despite the muggy heat, and his face is partially obscured by a black, wide-brimmed cowboy hat. His features are sharp and angular, giving him a sinister air that sets my nerves on edge.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s smiling, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “No, sorry, we have to go,” I snap, reaching across Mom to lock her door. She stops me, her eyes flooded with disapproval.

“Ruby, that's rude,” she scolds, her tone harsh as she opens her window a crack to answer him.

“Mom, we are going to be late,” I whine impatiently.

“Please, ma’am, I need your help,” he persists, giving us a toothy grin.

“We don’t have time, sorry,” I repeat, shooting Mom a desperate look, but she doesn’t budge.

“The shops close soon. Just tell him we don’t know!” I whisper, slumping back as my distrust deepens.

“If you take a right out of here onto...,” My mom starts, but I tune her out. My attention drifts to the two women I saw earlier. They’re arguing with a man I can’t quite see. Their hushed voices make my unease grow, but it’s the strange, gnawing feeling in my gut that keeps me from looking away. Something doesn’t feel right.

“Randall, get over here,” the one with the copper curls demands. Randall, the man in the cowboy hat, throws us a slick smile that sends shivers down my spine.

“I’ll be right back,” he coos in a syrupy drawl that makes my skin crawl.

A loud thump jolts the car forward, followed by raised voices. My heart leaps into my throat, convinced someone has crashed into the back of us. I let out a startled cry, clutching my mom’s hand as she fumbles with the keys in the ignition.

“She’s the one,” I hear one of the women say. Someone else speaks up, their voice tense, almost uncertain, but before they can finish, Randall cuts them off, his voice thick and rough. “You don’t make the rules.”

I check my side-mirror and see a man’s foot poking out from the back of our car. Randall stands over the man, looking to the redhead for approval. She nods, and without hesitation, Randall brings his foot down, and then a sickening crack slices through the air, followed by a pained yelp.

Frozen in terror, we watch, unable to comprehend what's happening.

Why isn't anyone helping him?

“Quick, let's go!” I sob, squeezing my mom's hand tightly.

“We can’t leave him like this,” she whimpers, panic and frustration swelling in her eyes.

Randall and the blonde woman viciously pummel the man on the ground, his attempts to fight back are met with relentless kicks and blows. I watch through my fingers, as the man’s face, streaked with blood, tries to crawl to the side of the car and pull himself up. He doesn’t make it and collapses in agony, prompting the group to shriek with laughter and drag him backwards.

“Mom,” I plead, but her focus remains fixed on the man on the ground. The dilemma is written all over her face. She’s going to try and help him—it’s who she is.

“It’s not right. She has a child!” The younger guy snarls, struggling to fight them off.

“Stop!” My mom screams, her voice raw, as she leaps from the car, wrenching her hand from mine. “Leave him alone!” She runs to the back of the car. I turn in my seat to follow her and see her drop to her knees, using her body as a shield over the man.

“What are you doing?” I scream as Randall and the two women begin swarming around her, but she remains bent over the injured man protectively, her eyes locked on mine.

“Close the window, lock the car. Call the police!” My mom’s voice is sharp, urgent, demanding. I scramble to obey, my hands shaking violently, trembling so much I can’t even unlock my phone. “Shit!” I curse, watching it slip from my grip and tumble down the side of the seat. Panic claws at my chest, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My stomach churns with helplessness as I shove my hand under the seat, desperately groping for it.

I glance back at my mom. She’s somehow managed to drag the man closer to the car, her face streaked with tears, silent pain in every line. In a last-ditch attempt, I empty her purse, searching for her phone. When I find it, relief washes over me—only to vanish in an instant. Her phone flashes once. Twice. Then fades to black.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper, pressing my face against the cool window, unable to stop the tears. When her eyes meet mine, I see the guilt—but no regret. She knows help isn’t coming.

“Ruby, it will be okay. Stay calm, okay, honey? Everything is going to be okay,” she reassures me, her forced smile failing to mask the terror in her eyes.

She sees it before I do. Randall is holding something in his hand. I squint against the fading light, trying to make out what it is.

It's a gun.

His stare is cold, unfeeling—piercing through me. But he isn’t pointing it at my mom. He’s pointing it at me.

“Ruby,” she calls again, and the fear in her voice jerks my attention back to her. Her smile is resolute, unwavering, even with a dying man in her lap. She smiles at me.

The man in her lap gurgles, spitting up blood, his face obscured by matted hair. Little does he know, the bravest woman on earth is caring for him in his final moments.

“I can give you money if that's what you want. I have $500 in my purse. Please, don't hurt us,” my mom begs, slowly setting the man down to rise to her feet.

Randall's laughter echoes wickedly, sending chills down my spine, while the copper-haired girl remains silent, watching. Her eyes darting between my mom, the gun and me.

“We don’t want your money!” The blonde woman giggles, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her hands drumming her hips impatiently like she has better things to do and is in a rush for this to be over with.

“Please.” My mom’s voice cracks, igniting a fire within me.

I pound my fist on the horn, over and over again. “Mom!” I scream, throwing myself at the car window, smashing my fists against it.

My mom makes a desperate rush toward me, but a deafening pop shatters the air, ringing in my skull. Time stalls, like the final tick of a broken clock, frozen in the moment before everything collapses. I watch in slow motion as my mom crumples to the ground, her arms outstretched toward me. I'm paralysed, unable to do anything but witness the pain reach my mom’s eyes and the light behind them slowly dim.

Randall and the two women lunge at my mom, their shadows monstrous as they hover over her, rifling through her pockets and shaking her lifeless body. I slam my fist against the car horn, holding it down as the sound pierces the air.

My alarm snaps them to their feet. They shout at me through the glass, rocking the car from side to side. I open my mouth to scream, but my voice is gone. I try again, but all I feel is the burning in my throat and the taste of blood.

Then, with a violent shift, I’m pulled back to reality. My eyes snap open to find my father’s face looming over me. Sweat-soaked and trembling, I gasp for air and bolt upright. The nightmare clings to me like a straitjacket, and it takes a moment for my mind to catch up and realise that I’m safe.

“You were having a nightmare again! Are you OK?” My father asks, his face full of concern.

He hands me a glass of water, and I drain it, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat. I must have been screaming in my sleep again. I pass him the empty glass, then collapse back onto my pillow.

“I’m fine. It was just a dream, that’s all,” I brush off his concern.

“That’s three this month,” my father notes, opening the window to let in the cool night air.

I glance at my phone—it’s after one in the morning, and the night is still pitch black. I stay silent. I can’t keep burdening him with my nightmares; it would only add to his worries.

“Okay. Try to get some rest. Goodnight, Ruby.” He leans in as if to kiss my forehead, but pulls back, offering me a cautious pat on the arm instead. It’s like he’s afraid of catching something.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. I want to tell him how the loneliness and grief are still unbearable, even after 5 years, I’m still not coping. But I clamp my mouth shut. “You know, I was thinking of going to Kilmer Cemetery tomorrow. Do you think you could take the morning off and come with me?” I ask, avoiding his gaze.

“No, Ruby, I can’t. I’m working over in Lancaster tomorrow, so I won’t be home until late,” he says, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

“But, Dad, you said that last time,” I sigh, the words falling flat between us. The silence that follows feels loaded like we’re both too afraid to address what’s really been left unsaid.

His eyes shift, not meeting mine, and he clears his throat. He hasn’t visited my mom since it all happened. The thought of him even mentioning her feels foreign now.

I remember the funeral—how my uncle had to almost drag him there, propping him up through the service. The weight of his grief had drained him of everything—his strength, his will. He hasn’t been the same since. I barely recognise him anymore, but then, some might say the same about me. The only time I hear him cry is in the dead of night, on days we can’t escape. Christmases, anniversaries—those moments are just echoes now.

We never talk about her anymore, and in some ways, I’m relieved by that. Grief is like a weight we carry in silence—silent because it’s easier than facing it head-on. I can’t even deal with my own pain, let alone his.

“Goodnight, Ruby,” he whispers, flicking off my lamp and closing the door behind him.

A few minutes later, I hear his bedroom door close. Then, the muffled sound of sobbing fills the silence, quietly mirroring my own.