Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
I groan into my pillow when Octavia murmurs, “If it helps you sleep any better, we didn’t have sex in there.”
“Not helping me have a restful slumber, Tivy.”
I’ve only just shut his mocking laugh out of my head when Octavia bursts into my room, her face as white as a ghost. “Where are those documents? The ones I begged you to place into storage.”
I’m completely lost, and my daftness is heard in my reply, even with it being short, “What?”
“The documents.” She stares at me in desperation. “The ones you should have destroyed. Where are they?”
My gut swirls when my sluggish head finally clicks on. “The depositions?”
A tear slips down her cheek when she nods. “Yes. Where are they?”
I want to say I don’t know, but that would be a lie. The files she’s after are in the broom closet, where they’ve silently haunted me for over three years. “In the broom closet next to the bathroom. Why?”
The words have barely left my mouth when Octavia shoots out of my room as fast as she entered it. I gather a shirt from the foot of my bed, then join her next to the cupboard that holds half our grandfather’s ghastly secrets.
The other half remains locked in me.
My hand rattles when I gather the sheets of paper that slipped from the box when Octavia yanked it out with too much force for the crumbling material to sustain.
I place them next to the stack she’s shifting through on the dining room table before asking, “What are you looking for?” When I remember how downhill her mental health went when she found these documents three and a half years ago, I add, “No good will come from looking at this shit—” I choke on my spit when she thrusts her phone’s screen into my face. It has the name of the company director who oversees the distribution of the massive settlements some of my grandfather’s victims were awarded years ago.
I say ‘some’ because not all of us are cited on his victims’ ledger.
Most stayed anonymous, and over a dozen never came forward.
I am one of the latter.
After cursing under my breath, I ask, “Do we have a name to work off or…”
I sound pissed, and for good reason. We picked Seattle because it was the furthest point from our hometown. Octavia thought the chances of bumping into one of his victims was significantly reduced here because she has no clue she sleeps across the hall from one every night.
I curse again when Octavia answers, “Jack. He introduced himself as Jack.” Her expression morphs to shame when she admits, “I don’t know his last name. I don’t even know if that’s his real name. God, Caleb, what if—”
“Calm down,” I suggest, aware of her triggers when she is about to hyperventilate. “It could mean anything. It doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it does.”
“He has phobias about touch, Caleb.” She looks on the verge of bursting into tears when she admits, “He didn’t want me to touch him.”
Conscious that is a neurosis of my grandfather’s victims, I yank out a chair from underneath the dining table, spin it around, then straddle it backward, hopeful the high back will hide the frantic heave of my lungs as I struggle not to let the blackness take hold.
I usually only black out during violent situations, but firsts occur every day.
Furthermore, I don’t handle anger well, and that’s all I feel when confronted with my grandfather’s horrendous crimes.
Many long minutes later, my anger takes a back seat for relief. “I’m not seeing anything. I can’t see anything that resembles a Jack. I don’t think he’s in here.” My nose tingles when my thumb slips off a Post-it note stuck to one of the dispositions. “Shit…”
“What?” Octavia almost rips the paper when she yanks it out of my grip. There’s no holding back the inundation of tears that form in her eyes when she peers down at the name scribbled across the decades’ old paper. Jackson C.
“It might not be him,” I mutter, saying anything to lessen the heaviness on my chest. “And that could mean anything. It’s a scrap of paper, not actual evidence.”
“But it also could be him,” Octavia fights back, her voice skittish. “I often introduce myself as Tivy, so who’s to say Jackson wouldn’t do the same.”
When she sways like a leaf on a hot summer’s day, I shoot out of my chair and grip the top of her arms. “Stop. Breathe. And evaluate.” I repeat the words to myself before adding, “You know the steps, Tivy. Use them.”
Five years ago, I made out I was Octavia’s support person during group counseling sessions. The truth was, I needed some guidance too. After my mother’s death, I spiraled fast. I would have been buried in the plot next to her if it hadn’t been for the promise I made to Octavia when I was ten. It saw me get back on the straight and narrow, the bends only returning when a move to the other side of the country didn’t magically erase what had happened to me.