Parker blew up her father.
She's never shed any tears over it.
Oh. Her not her real father. The one that tried so hard to pack her lunches for school, and ate sugary cereal with her every Saturday morning even if She'd called him into the office. Her father, the one that fought for her, that was jittery and concerned and taught her to ride her bike without the annoying wheels attached to the sides.
She doesn't cry over him either. Or mention him at all.
It's safer that way.
Doesn't mean it hurts any fucking less.
They used to call her Debbie.
Parker was the name of the woman with the short skirts, the sharp line of a nose and the nails that were the color of dried blood.
She was also the woman that gave Debbie books to read and brushed Debbie's hair and always looked a little bit sad, just around the edges of the eyes where only a child could see it.
Her life was weird.
And then it got even weirder.
And then it went to hell.
She never saw any of them ever again. Not her father, not Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod. For her safety, they told her.
But she'd been watching, and she had some innate talents of her own, so one day she lit a fuse and blew up her world.
Parker was the only name she ever wanted to take. She was strong, smart, and determined to outwit the other guy. A little sad around the eyes, but only where a few could see it.