Chapter One
Bad Weather

Mr. Evans walked briskly down the empty corridor, his shoes echoing noisily on the marble floor and his keys jangling in his pocket. The bank had closed several hours ago, but in a rush to pick up his youngest daughter's birthday cake and a card, he had forgotten her present in his office, underneath his desk.

Mrs. Evans was expecting him home no later than six-thirty, which was when the party would start. Mr. Evans had promised that he would be home at six so that he could help set up, and as the bank closed at five, and picking up Lily's things shouldn't take much longer than thirty minutes, he had seen no flaw in the plan.

Mr. Evans turned a corner and hurried down the hall, mentally kicking himself for being so careless. How could he have forgotten the present? Of all the things his wife was expecting him to bring home that night, this was the most important. Of course, it was understandable why it had slipped his mind; he had had a lot of thoughts floating around his head, battling for his attention, and though he was determined not to ruin his daughter's birthday, the evening couldn't have gone worse.

He had left the office late. One of his clients had kept him on the phone until a quarter past five. After hurriedly explaining about the party, Mr. Winston had agreed to call back in the morning. Mr. Evans had then had to remind him that the next morning was Saturday; the bank would be closed. Mr. Winston had responded by joking about his old age creeping up on him, had apologized for forgetting ("of course it's closed! How silly of me! I tell you, Horace, one morning I'm going to wake up and forget how to get out of bed!"), and told Mr. Evans that he thought they should arrange a time and date to meet. They spent the next ten minutes deciding on just that ("Nope, not Thursday, no can do. Chelsea's mother is coming round for tea. Tea meaning she's going to spend the whole day. And I've got a dentist appointment this Monday at half past two… by the way; did you hear what happened to old James Kinsey? Robbed two nights ago. They say it was the same nutter who stole from George Leeman last month..."). When they finally decided that Mr. Winston should come by the bank at a quarter to three on Wednesday, it was well past five-thirty. Mr. Winston told Mr. Evans to wish Lily a happy birthday, and after promising that he would, Mr. Evans had slammed down the phone, snatched up his briefcase and dashed out the door, stopping only for a moment to lock it behind him.

Then there had been a mix-up at the bakery. Mr. Evans had come to a squealing halt in the middle of the deserted parking lot and run inside only to find that someone else had accidentally gone home with Lily's cake. He had almost reached the trunk of his car when he looked down and realised he was holding a cake for someone named Ernie, who was apparently celebrating his fiftieth birthday. It took another five minutes for the young girl at the counter to reach the manager, who turned out to be very small, nervous-looking man. The manager started sputtering apologies, and offering reduced prices on regular, less extravagant birthday cakes, and looked almost as though he didn't know what else to do when a bald man walked in holding Lily's cake, which, to Mr. Evans' enormous relief, was untouched.

"It's a good thing my wife's paranoid and likes to check everything over twice," said the bald man, putting Lily's cake on the counter and taking the one in Mr. Evans' hands. The manager shook the bald man's hand furiously, told him to wish Ernie a happy fiftieth and stuffed a gift certificate into his hand. The bald man nodded and walked out. The manager then turned to Mr. Evans and did the exact same thing, except he replaced Ernie's name with Lily's. Mr. Evans didn't bother to tell the manager that Lily was actually turning five, not fifty, as it was now ten after six, and the party would be starting in twenty minutes.

He had bought a card, picked up balloons and candles and even a packet of sparklers, was racing along the icy road, windshield wipers sweeping back and forth like mad, and would have made it home without a minute to spare, even with the oncoming snow storm blowing around outside, when it hit him: he remembered, quite distinctly, that he had not remembered to grab the wrapped parcel underneath his desk when he had charged out of his office earlier that evening.

And so here he was, out of his mind with anxiety, outside the door to his office. He could see the corner of the gift sticking out from underneath his desk through the door window. There was a little sign underneath this window, a sign that Mr. Evans had always been proud of, as he had worked so hard to achieve it.

Horace Evans
Financial Advisor

Mr. Evans jabbed his key roughly into the lock and turned it. There was a click and the door opened. Mr. Evans' eyes darted to the clock hanging on the wall behind his desk. It was six thirty-five. He would've been on time had he not turned back, but what choice did he have? Lily had been ogling the gift for weeks. Everytime they passed the shop, she would run up to the window and press her nose and palms against it, as though hoping to fall through it.

"Can we go in, Mummy? Can we? Can we go and see—"

"Not now, Lily. You've looked at it enough. Besides, your birthday is coming up—"

"Dad, can we go in, Dad? I want—"

But Mr. Evans had only smiled and shook his head. "In good time, my dear, you'll see."

Now he sat on the black swivel chair behind his desk and reached down. He brought up a little white box. A small, violet bow was placed neatly on top. Late or not, at least she was going to get it today. He opened the box and smiled at what was inside. Looking up, his eyes fell on one of the many picture frames sitting around his office. This one was propped up against several books on the shelf on the wall opposite him. It was a picture of his two daughters, taken the Christmas before last. They were both sitting in the living room of the Evans' house. Lily grinned cheekily up at the camera as she held up the new doll she had just unwrapped. Petunia sat back a bit; surrounded by wrapping paper, mid-way through unwrapping one of her own presents.

A clanging noise echoing from somewhere down the hall brought Mr. Evans back to the present and the current time. He glanced at his watch, grabbed his keys off the top of the desk, knocking over a pot full of pens in the process, took one last look around the room, and departed.

Mrs. Evans wouldn't be worried—her husband often came home from work hours later than he said he would—but she would be disappointed—disappointed that he couldn't at least have made it home on time for his daughter's fifth birthday. Mr. Evans felt full of guilt as he jogged to his car, after running into the janitor who had tripped over his own bucket and mop, which explained the clanging echo, which of course, really didn't interest Mr. Evans at all, as he was now in a terrible haste. He reached his car that he had recklessly abandoned on the side of the road. He wasn't entirely sure that he was allowed to park there, but the downtown was so deserted; there wasn't a person or a car in sight, let alone a police officer handing out tickets.

The fact that there was no traffic was the only good thing that happened that wintry afternoon in January. It was the only good thing that happened for a while, really. And after all the misfortunes Mr. Evans had met that day after work, the most unfortunate was yet to come.

As Mr. Evans reached his car and flung the door open, the unfortunate event occurred in the form of a large truck. The truck was trundling down a particularly slippery Balfour Avenue, and was about to make a very sharp turn down Trenton Street, at the end of which Mr. Evans' car was parked. Mr. Evans jammed the key into the ignition, backed up, and twisted his steering wheel to the left. He shot down Trenton Street just as the truck came hurtling around the corner. Before Mr. Evans could register what was happening, the wheels skidded on the frozen surface of the road, and the truck smashed into the front of the little car with unimaginable force; Mr. Evans went flying right into the windshield, and was killed instantly.

Shopkeepers, who were closing up for the night, abandoned their posts and hurried to the scene. Nosy people living in the next street over grabbed sweaters and scarves and bustled over to see what all the commotion was about. The unharmed truck driver jumped out of the vehicle and was screaming at the nearest shopkeeper to call the ambulance; spit spewed from underneath his moustache and little flakes of snow collected in his beard.

Lily's gift, which had been lying on the passenger's seat next to Mr. Evans, had fallen to the floor during the crash. It had opened up, and a small, silver, heart-shaped locket was now lying next to the lid.

The ambulance arrived and the police arrived and even the fire fighters arrived, but Mr. Evans was most certainly dead, and as several paramedics peeled his bloody corpse from the car, a little red-haired girl sat at home, surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins and friends, wishing and waiting, and hoping that her father would arrive soon.

A/N: I like reviews. Anything you have to say, whether it's complimentary or otherwise, is appreciated. Constructive criticism is more than welcome.