Page 54

Inside, his bedsheets were old and faded to a grayish blue. His comforter looked like it had been repaired along one seam by hand, which I know Sherry would never bother to do.

On his desk, magazine clippings were meticulously sorted into labeled folders and half-hidden beneath stacks of old schoolbooks. His desk lamp’s cord looked like a fire hazard waiting to happen.

But when I knelt and slipped my hand under the mattress, what I found brought a deep feeling of grief along with it.

Sketches.

Jesus Christ, the sketches.

I know nothing about fashion, but I know expertise when I see it, and Kamden’s drawings possess the same obsessive precision I saw in John, who could dismantle and rebuild weapons blindfolded quicker than anyone I knew.

Different skill, same brain.

Every line had purpose. There were evening gowns that draped against the models like waterfalls, sharply tailored suits with hidden pockets, all beautiful. Notes in the margins about movement, fabric weight, seams, how the garments should feel against skin.

And over and over, blond models—willowy and delicate. The more I saw them, the more I realized that they portrayed versions of himself as he wanted to be.

Not how Kamden sees himself now, but how he wants to.

And fuck, if that didn’t stick with me.

Beneath his pillow, I found a cream-colored blouse with pearl buttons and lace-trimmed cuffs. My fingers rubbed against it for far longer than I’ll ever admit.

And as I stood there holding the edge of the fabric, I heard John’s voice. “Kid likes pretty shit.”

If only he could see him now. If only he could see the sketches.

I might have failed in protecting Kamden until now, but Kamden has been protecting himself all along.

Then I found the rabbit, and fuck, that nearly got me. Tucked into the back corner of the closet was the stuffed bunny that Kamden had been holding in that last photo John had shown me. Gray now, instead of white, and worn almost flat in some places, with one ear sewn back on with mismatched thread, but the same one.

The same one tucked beneath eight-year-old Kamden’s chin while a plastic crown leaned sideways on his blond head.

I finally broke once I opened the plastic tote the rabbit was sitting on, because there was John.

Not John himself, not literally.

But photos of him, his Purple Heart, and funeral flag.

I’m sure Kamden rescued these. No, I know he did. One picture has a tear, another has a large, dark stain, and the flag case looks like it was thrown against something.

I found the money under the floorboards last, evidence that Kamden has been saving for a way out of here.

I left after placing the two listening devices—one behind his desk beneath a tangled clump of cords, and one in the living room at the bottom of a dust-covered pot of a fake fern.

The receiver in my ear picks up the front door opening, and Sherry’s shrill, annoying voice as she speaks to her son like he’s a roommate she hates.

“You gonna stand there all fucking day?”

Kamden answers, “No, sorry.”

I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes, listening to the blatant verbal abuse Kamden undoubtedly receives every day.

Their conversation unfolds with Sherry accusing, Kamden placating. I get my confirmation that the boy never told his mother about Wade’s death when she asks whether the man has reached out to him.

When Kamden denies, she says, “I swear to God, if he comes back here, I’m done.”

Kamden says quietly, “You’ve said that before.”