Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Either it didn’t matter, or he wanted to forget it ever existed. Maybe I should thank those shitty kids for inspiring me to do this, since it gives me another clue–however fuzzy–about what makes Romero tick.
It makes me think back on what Mrs. Cooper said when I asked what kind of kid he was. He had his moments. I wonder if he was anything like those kids—getting into trouble, being mischievous. It doesn't take much thought. Something tells me he was, and it makes me smile to myself when I remember that sullen, moody kid I first met.
There's not all that much in here besides cardboard boxes stacked along the far wall, on the other side of a big, bulky shape covered in a giant tarp. I walk around it in favor of reaching the boxes, pulling one from the top of the stack and hoping there's something inside that would give me a little insight. Who is he? Where did he come from? Why did he ever leave, and of all places, why did he end up with us?
There are no such answers to be found when I lift the lid and peer inside. No letters describing a painful past or family secrets, no diary or anything that obvious. There are, however, photos. Envelopes of them. I vaguely remember a time when we would get pictures printed at a store, and they would come in envelopes like these. I grab one at random and open it before carefully lifting the top photo and holding it up so the light hits it.
There's a couple sitting on a couch with a big floral print. They're probably in their mid-teens, and he's got his arm around her while she's snuggled close to him. She's wearing a choker necklace and a spaghetti strap camisole, while he wears a dark red flannel. His black hair hangs down to his shoulders, while her short, brown hair is held back with tiny clips across the top of her head.
She looks happy. So does he.
And they both look like Romero. The guy’s blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones, the girl’s full lips. They have to be his parents. It's hard to believe two happy-looking people could create... him.
The happiness didn’t last forever. Another of Mrs. Cooper’s comments repeats in my head. There were troubles. She didn’t have the chance to go any deeper than that.
I don't know how much more time I have before he finds me out here, so instead of looking through more photos, I replace them and then return the box to the stack. I can always come back out here another time, like right after he goes downstairs to work out. He’s usually down there for half an hour or more, so that will give me plenty of time.
I should go, now. Only when I turn, prepared to slip out and lock up again, do I trip over the corner of the tarp and bump against whatever's underneath. I can make out the shape of handlebars under there somewhere. A bike? But much bigger than anything I ever rode as a kid.
What the hell? I lift the corner and peer underneath. My eyes widen when a little overhead light leaks in and gives me a glimpse of polished chrome.
“What are you doing in here?”
I let out a yelp before I can stop myself. “Fuck!” My heart's about to burst out of my chest—when I put a hand over it, I feel it pounding away under my palm.
He's standing there in the doorway, arms folded, with a sweaty patch on the front of his gray T-shirt. I can barely pry my eyes from it while my cheeks flush from embarrassment at being caught… and when I remember what I fantasized about earlier. I’m lucky if it isn’t written all over my face. “You need to wear a bell or something!”
“How could I catch you sneaking around where you don't belong if I did that?”
“I wasn't doing anything. I was only looking around.”
“Which means you are doing something. There's a reason this door is locked.”
“Those asshole kids were trying to break in, and I figured I should at least know what's in here if I'm going to keep them from breaking the lock and taking what's inside.”
He lowers his brow, studying me. Probably trying to decide if I'm telling the truth. I don't dare blink. I can't give him a reason not to believe me.
“They're lucky I didn't catch them,” he decides. “Well, you're in here. You might as well take off the tarp.”
It's not quite as much fun with his permission, but I doubt I'll ever get this chance again. “You're sure? You're not going to throw this in my face later?”
“The clock is ticking, and your window of opportunity is getting smaller.”
“I’m just saying. Maybe I'll learn something about you, and I know how much you hate that.”