Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Goosebumps pebble my skin, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up while I wrestle with the choice of going up the stairs or running out the door.
Running seems to be the way to go, but a voice coming from upstairs stops me before I take off. “Honey? Is that you?”
It’s my father, but it isn’t. His familiar voice is thick, slurred. How many of those bottles has he emptied tonight? My heart’s in my throat as I hurry up the stairs, dreading what I’ll find.
His bedroom door is open, and before I’ve entered the room, I can see the pictures spread out over the double bed he once shared with my mom. Sometimes, he likes to reminisce.
But it’s not like him to get drunk before he does, and that sink didn’t fill up overnight. He could’ve been spiraling all this time while I was too busy screwing up my life to notice. I always think of him as having everything together.
A look at the bedroom tells me otherwise. There are dirty clothes all over the place and a layer of dust covering the dresser. The bed is messy, and there are more of those empty bottles on both nightstands and on the floor beside my dad, who’s on his knees in front of an open box.
“Just the girl I wanted to see.” He raises a bottle to me and narrows his bloodshot eyes like he’s trying to bring me into focus. “You deserve to be here to celebrate with me.”
“What are we celebrating?” His clothes are rumpled—he might’ve slept in them, judging by the looks. His normally clean-shaven face is covered in dark stubble, and his hair is a mess. A clump falls over his forehead when he looks down into the box.
Wedding photos. A quick search of my memory tells me it’s not their anniversary or Mom’s birthday.
“The most beautiful girl in the world.” He picks up one of my favorites, a shot of the two of them walking down the aisle after the ceremony. “I’m telling you, when I saw her coming toward me on your grandpa’s arm, my heart damn near burst.”
He’s beaming in the picture, and Mom is radiant in her full-skirted princess dress. I always planned on wearing it for my wedding someday.
“She could’ve been a model,” I muse, kneeling beside him. God, he reeks of beer and sweat, the complete opposite of the joyful young man in the photo. This isn’t like him. What don’t I know about?
“She could have done anything, but she married me. A damn cop.” He runs his thumb over her cheek before a tear drips from his chin onto the photo. I quickly wipe it away.
“What’s happening, Dad? What are you celebrating?” And if it’s a celebration, why is he crying?
I reach over and move the empty bottles on the floor before he can knock them over as he stumbles his way to standing. “I forgot to tell you. I finally did it.” I don’t know where he thought he was going since he plops down on the bed with a thud.
“Did what?” I’m quick to gather up the things on the bed before he passes out on them. More photos. A baby blanket of mine.
“Found what I’ve been looking for all this time. I knew I would. Evidence… had to be out there…”
He’s swaying back and forth, and his head is drooping. “Why don’t you get some rest, and we’ll talk more about it in the morning?” The bed wasn’t made in the first place, so it’s nothing to ease him back until he’s lying down, then pull the flower-print blankets over him.
He gazes up at me, eyes squinted, his head on the pillow. “I did it. I promised her, and I did it.”
“Did what, Dad?”
“I finally found the evidence. I always knew he did it, and now I can pin it on him.”
“Pin what?” I ask, mostly to be kind.
“Your mom’s murder.”
My blood turns to ice, and a cold sweat breaks out on my neck. “Mom’s murder?” He always said she was killed in a drive-by. A typical wrong-place-wrong-time situation. I’ve never heard him use the word murder.
“I knew he did it. Everybody… knew… I was after him…” His eyes close as he continues muttering. “The only logical answer…”
“Who, Dad?” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open and lock onto mine. “Callum Torrio. He murdered your mom. I finally have proof.”