Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
At the time, I figured maybe he was in a home like my grandparents were. We’d visited them occasionally, my mom chain-smoking in the car on the way there, her body taut and fidgety.
It was clear that the relationships she had with her parents were… strained. All they did was bicker when they visited, though they’d been nice to me, handing me sugar-free candy out of their nightstands, and telling how pretty and smart I was. Even though they couldn’t have possibly known if I was smart since I’d never spent any time with them.
“No, stupid,” my mom had said when I mentioned that, rolling her eyes at me. “He’s not old enough to be in a nursing home.”
Which was not something I understood yet at eight years old. But I filed that information away.
I was ushered into my room when the buzzer announced that my uncle had arrived. I thought that was where I’d be forced to stay, my belly grumbling, my ear pressed to the door, shamelessly eavesdropping.
But the third thing my uncle said when he came in, after greeting my mom, and telling her the food smelled great, was inquiring about me.
“Where’s the little ankle-biter?” he’d asked.
My mom sighed, then called out my name.
“Oh, look at you. Haven’t been biting ankles in a while, huh?” he’d asked, nodding at me.
My uncle was a tall, thin man. No beard, no tattoos. Dark brown hair cut in a very plain style. Eyes a mix of green and brown I would later learn to call ‘hazel.’
Everything about him was… nondescript. You couldn’t pick him out of a crowd.
I would be told later that he’d done that by design.
He’d been kind of quiet over that dinner while my mom badgered him about where he’d been, what he’d done, how envious she was that he had nothing tying him down.
I was young, but I was well aware that I was what was tying her down.
During that visit, she’d mentioned the apartment building having a few vacancies, but he’d said nothing about it.
Until we found out a week or so later that he’d moved in without a word.
“He’s not the brother I used to know,” my mother had complained, shaking her head as we watched him carry his things in the building from our apartment window.
That seemed to be my mother’s way of writing the man off. I don’t recall her ever inviting him over again after that. And she definitely didn’t want to visit his place.
I, on the other hand, found myself completely fascinated by my uncle. Part of that was likely because he was the only other family I had, and I was desperately seeking some sort of connection with someone, since my mom and I weren’t close.
I watched his comings and goings, curious why he was always checking his surroundings, always seeming suspicious and anxious.
Eventually, though, he seemed to stop going out at all. Someone from the local grocery store started bringing him his food each week.
That was what actually sent me down to his apartment for the first time.
My mom had been out with her girlfriends for several days in a row during my summer break, and there was nothing at all left to eat in the apartment. And lord knew my mom never let me have any money.
So, at nine, with a grumbling stomach, I made my way out of the apartment, and up the elevator to his floor.
Mid-building. I would later learn that he refused to stay in an apartment or a hotel on a lower or upper level. He preferred rooms with no views, close to the stairwell, and far from the elevators.
“Whatever it is, leave it at the door,” a voice had called from inside when I knocked.
“Uncle Chuck?” I’d called back.
There was shuffling, the sound of what seemed like a dozen locks disengaging, then the door was swinging open.
“Munchkin,” he’d said, nodding at me. “What’re you doing here?”
“We’re out of food.” I was blunt, even as a kid. Likely because my mom didn’t give me a whole helluva lot of time to explain my wants and needs, so I learned not to beat around the bush about anything.
To that, his brows raised. “Where’s your mom?” he’d asked, inviting me in.
“I don’t know. She goes out a lot.”
He sighed at that, but nodded. Then made me an omelet while I poked around his apartment.
“It was full of carefully concealed weapons,” I told Cato.
A wall of “decorative” knives on display. A bat here. Tools tucked behind garbage cans or under cabinets. If you needed to defend yourself, you wouldn’t be more than a foot away from some sort of weapon at all times.
“You come here anytime there’s no food at home,” he’d insisted as I ate like a starving child. “Or when you don’t want to be alone,” he’d added.