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“Of course it is.” She turns the pages, not looking up. “Look at this. It’s entries from years ago all the way to now. Names. Places. Guys… what if he has his real name, his address somewhere in here? This could be the most important clue of all.”
“Or it could contain nothing to help us locate him—assuming he wants to be found.”
She waves a dismissive hand at us. “Listen. Five years ago…”
Chapter Forty
From Kash’s Journal
December 19 - Five years ago
Dad is gone. Everyone is gone. If nobody is there when you scream in the night, what’s the use of living? What’s the use of screaming?
Uncle A. says I’m sick. That boys need to learn to control their feelings. He doesn’t understand shit. He took me to a therapist who said I should start a journal. Piz’duk.
So here it is. Just you and me, Journal. Do your best. Be what I lost, will you? Be my family, be my parents and sister, turn back time and make everything right.
This is bullshit. How the hell can a notebook help me?
Nothing can.
February 27 - Five years ago
You’re not fucking helping. Stupid journal. What’s the use of this? The therapist says I have to write, but write what? They’re dead. Nothing will bring them back.
I hate you. I hate Uncle A. I hate this journal. This house.
My dad for putting doubts in my mind. For giving me a riddle and then dying.
I’m done.
Sept 4 - Five years ago
So… I’m back. Um. Not sure what to write. Never was. Here goes, though.
It’s been a tough year. Losing Dad was shit. Almost as bad as losing Mom and sis. No, losing him was worse. He was the last. The last family I had.
I get these panic attacks when I think about the past, about the incomprehensible horror of their death.
The therapist says that’s what they are. Panic attacks. I feel as if I can’t breathe, that the walls are closing in, the ceiling crushing me. I feel like I’m dying. She showed me some breathing techniques, but it’s shit. Nothing helps.
Sometimes I really wish I’d died with them.
Sometimes I wish I could end it all now. The only thing that stops me is the need to find my family’s killers, bring them to justice. Or shoot them in the face. That’d be more satisfying.
I don’t think I’m sane anymore.
Dec 4 - Five years ago
It’s been a year. It’s been lonely. Scary. Uncle A. has this housekeeper who is only here to keep an eye on me. My keeper.
I’m home a lot. Homeschooled. Home trained. Uncle A. buys me the latest games.
I hate his guts. I’m a prisoner in my family house. He’s my custodian and he’s taken over my dad’s businesses. I’ve overheard him talking on the phone about it.
But I go out and train with Oleg, one of dad’s old friends, from his youth. I’ve trained all my life with him, and if I stopped, he’d start asking questions, and if dad was right, Uncle A. wouldn’t risk it.
At least I have that.
