Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Since he’s not in here drinking, he must be taking a nap.
It’s been rough for him, and it gets worse the older I get. He shouldn’t even be drinking. He promised me he wouldn’t anymore, not with his liver problems. If I had my way, I’d move him into a place closer to me. Someplace I can see him more often and where he’d be taken care of. He always took care of me. Now it’s my turn to take care of him. For as long as I can remember, it’s always been just us.
Sure, I have some memories from before, but as every year passes, they become more like a dream. Sometimes the past becomes so blurry, I wonder if I’m making it up, but I know I’m not.
Subconsciously, my hand lowers. The next thing I know, I’ve begun to rub the spot on my wrist. It’s a nervous tic. Most of the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. With a shake of my head, I keep walking through the hallway. My pace is slow, and I tiptoe to be quiet. That way, I won’t disturb him.
If he were up, he would’ve already said something to me.
As I make my way into his office and straight to his desk, my gaze drifts around the space. This room is surprisingly clean. There is nothing on the floor, just an old worn-out brown shag carpet. It needs a good wash, but that’s about it. Natural sunlight beams in through the drapes that are pulled open.
Taking a step closer to the desk, I realize that first appearances can be deceiving.
This room isn’t clean at all.
The wood is completely overrun with files. Some open, others closed. They cover every bit of the surface.
There are sticky notes on some of them, too.
I need to go through everything, but he can’t see me looking. If he catches me, he’ll be upset and kick me out.
According to him, I’m supposed to leave the past where it belongs, shoved deep down where it never resurfaces, and I can never ask questions. Doesn’t sound like a good idea, since it’s probably the reason he drinks.
Yeah, that won’t fly for me, though. I need to know the truth. Which is why I’m here.
Again.
Searching.
The house is eerily quiet around me, and as I look down at his desk, I don’t even know where to begin. There are papers everywhere, thrown haphazardly around without a care in the world.
Old newspapers.
Clippings of certain articles.
Printed off emails.
Credit card receipts.
Call logs.
There is even a picture of a group of men sitting around a table with a circle around one of their heads.
There is so much here, but I won’t have time to go through all of it.
But the good news is, apparently, my father and I think alike. The file I’m looking for is open on top of the mess. The pieces of paper look like they were crumpled, then uncrumpled.
Why did you do that? Why did you throw this away but then changed your mind? Or maybe I have this all wrong. Maybe he wasn’t tossing it. Maybe he didn’t like what it said.
As if it made him angry to read them.
This piques my interest.
Leaning forward, I flatten out the sheets, then start to thumb through the documents for pertinent information. In the corner of the first page, in familiar print, I see my father made a note in black ink: Felix Bernard?
My client.
“What did you find, Dad?”
I’m about to turn the page and continue my search when I hear a noise.
I still my hands, and when I hear it again, I know he’s up for the day and coming in here. Closing the file, I step away from his desk.
Then I pull my phone out of my pocket, pretending to be on a call.
“Skye? Is that you?” His voice rings through the air.
“Yep . . . in your office.” I take another step back as his footsteps grow closer. Just as he’s about to enter the room, I lift my phone to my ear.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as his body comes into focus. His gray hair is disheveled; he looks like he needs a cup of coffee and a shower. There’s also something about his complexion that’s not right. His skin has a yellow tinge to it. Maybe he has a cold? “I didn’t expect you to visit me so soon.”
I shrug, making a great show of hanging up and placing the device back in my bag. “Can’t a girl visit her dad?”
My father looks me up and down. A soft smile spreads across his face, and new lines form as he stares at me with eyes full of love. Lines that weren’t there the last time I saw him. Not laugh lines. No, these pepper the skin near his temples. They make him look tired, as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. Which, knowing my father, it probably does.