AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’ll come with you,” Connor replied without hesitation.
We parked outside my parents’ house, the lateafternoon sun casting long shadows across the yard. When we entered, the house was quiet, only the clock ticking filling the silence. Mom was in the kitchen, and I kissed her on the cheek. She was scrubbing the pan so hard that her knuckles were white.
“Your dad’s asleep in the front room,” she murmured.
“How you doing mom?”
She paused for a moment, suds swirling in gray water. “I’m okay,” she lied, her voice hitching.
I exchanged a look with Connor, who stepped back and away into the hall to give us space. I took her hands and dried them on the towel, then pulled her close in a hug. After a moment of stiffness, she relaxed into my hold. We didn’t talk, but we hugged for a long time and every so often her shoulders shook in a soft sob.
“Look at me getting all emotional,” she said as she pulled away and resumed scrubbing. “Silly woman.”
“Mom—”
“Pans won’t clean themselves.”
“Mom—”
She stopped momentarily, gripping the sink, drawing a deep breath. “I’m okay, Neil. I’m okay.” Then she tipped her chin. “So, why are you here?”
“I wanted to check on something in Dad’s office. An old case.”
She waved at me and smiled. “Go on then, and no funny stuff with your man lurking in the hallway.” So, shehadnoticed Connor?
“No, ma’am,” I agreed, busing her cheek again. “Love you, Mom.”
“None of that,” she murmured, “you’ll make me cry.”
After giving her one final side hug, I rescued Connor from lurking in the hall and led him upstairs to the small office that had once been my dad’s sanctuary. The room was musty, filled with the scent of old paper and the faint aroma of my dad’s aftershave. I opened a drawer in the old wooden desk and pulled out a stack of leather-bound journals worn from years of use. These were my dad’s meticulous records, notes he’d kept over the years, long before I ever wore the badge.
I flipped through the pages until I found the time around Rebecca Lennox’s disappearance. My dad had written a couple of entries about her diagnosis, how he’d taken Edward from a bar in town after he’d gotten drunk and started spouting off about murder and suicide. But he’d never charged him. Just made a note about how Edward claimed his wife had died up in Canada. He’d scribbled a reminder to do a welfare check on the kids. That was it. A brief, clinical record of events that seemed far too detached from the reality of what might have happened.
I flicked through a few more pages, reading notes about other incidents—drunk and disorderly charges, mentions of the kids, an accident where Edward had driven into a fire hydrant. Then, I found something that made my pulse quicken. A curious note, almost hidden among the others: something about Rebecca and pills and how her death might end up not being as clear-cut as it seemed. But the note was crossed out as if my dad had been trying to erase it from existence.
“Why are you in my things?” a voice croaked from the doorway.
I turned, my heart lurching as I saw my dad standing there, his expression lucid but angry, Mom standing behind him with a hand on his arm.
“They’re just visiting,” she murmured, and tried to tug him away but he wrenched free and stepped closer.
“Stop pulling at me!” he yelled at Mom, who stepped back. Then he paled and gripped her hand. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Ignore me. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she whispered, cradling his face gently. “I’ll always love you.”
For a second, there was a brilliant moment of absolute connection between my parents, but then he gently pushed Mom to leave. “Sherif’s work now, sweetheart,” he murmured, and she smiled before hovering out on the landing.
“What do you need, son?” he asked me, looking vital for a bit, almost focused.
“Rebecca Lennox,” I said, watching his reaction.
He frowned, moved into the room, and sat in the old armchair by the window.
“Hmm,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Killed herself before the cancer could take her … went to sleep. I reckon before he could kill her himself…” he frowned at his words. “He asked me to write that…”
“Write what, Dad?”
“Huh?”
