Page 35
“But yes,” she said.
“Yes? Yes what?”
“I actually do find you charming.”
His eyes dropped to her lips before he could tell them not to. Oh boy. He cleared his throat. “I like you too, Kira.”
For a moment neither of them moved, then he got himself together and pulled back onto the road that would take them to Sawyer’s Peak. The silence was awkward, so he picked a topic. “What’s your favorite holiday?”
“Christmas. I love the lights. What’s yours?”
“Thanksgiving.”
Thankfully, that eased the tension, and time flew by as they chatted. Bryce turned off the single-lane paved road and exchanged it for a dirt-and-rock trail. His father was never going to pay to have the long driveway paved. He made a mental note to send someone to do it and not tell his father.
His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel, his nerves twisted into one big knot. What was Kira going to think of the run-down trailer he’d called home as a kid? Not to mention his caustic father.
The trees parted and Bryce pulled up next to his father’s ancient pickup truck. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Hopefully they could make it back to DC before the rain rolled in.
“Is your father home?”
Of course his old man was home during the day. His dad hadn’t worked as far back as Bryce could remember. “I think so, based on his truck being here. He hasn’t held down a job in years. At one point, he had a construction job, but he hurt his back and refuses to work even though he’s now able. He lives off a settlement from the jobsite and takes checks from the government. But he drinks away every penny he has.” Or at least he had. He didn’t see any evidence that had changed.
The grass hadn’t been mowed in weeks. Mold rimmed the white siding of the mobile home. A random tire lay next to the house. He hated to imagine the condition inside. “This isn’t going to be pretty, Kira.”
“It’s okay, Bryce, I promise.” She nudged him. “I’ve seen autopsies before. And worked in New York City. I’ve got a strong stomach.”
His laugh came out sounding more like a snort. “Right.” He uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel. “Let’s do this then.”
“Are you sure the journals are here?”
“Yes. They weren’t anything my father could sell, so he wasn’t interested in them. I left a few boxes of my grandfather’s belongings in a closet in the back bedroom. Dad will never find them because he doesn’t clean. It’s like this house was frozen in time. Nothing has changed since the year my mom walked out.”
She looked at him with soft eyes that encouraged him to tell that story, but not now.
They opened the car doors, and Bryce could already smell something that reeked like spoiled milk. Kira scrunched her nose but said nothing.
Bryce stopped at the overgrown flower bed near the porch and pointed at the gawdy stone bunny rabbit statue that resembled a long-forgotten Easter decoration. “Some things never change. My father would hide a spare key under this.” He picked it up, and sure enough, a key was stuck to the bottom of the lawn decoration with a piece of duct tape. He set it back down. What was up with the rabbit theme?
He walked up the cement steps to the front door. A television blared the theme song of some daytime game show. He knocked. The volume decreased and shuffling sounds came from within.
“What do you want?” his father barked behind the closed door, not even bothering to open it.
“It’s Bryce.”
The lock clicked and his father opened the door. The man’s shaggy hair was now bushy gray. His stooped shoulders made him appear feeble. Bryce caught a whiff of the smell, body odor and who knew what else, through the screen. How could his father live like this?
Tears welled in Bryce’s eyes. He blamed it on the pungent odor and blinked to clear his vision.
“Well, if it isn’t my long-lost son.” His father opened the screen door and waved Bryce and Kira in while he marched to the living room and returned to his recliner—the same one from Bryce’s childhood.
“Well, don’t just stand there. What do you want? Did you come for money? Because I ain’t got any.”
Bryce moved into the room through the path of newspapers, pizza boxes, and beer cans to the couch, and Kira followed. He wasn’t going to sit on the dirty couch that was once white, now stained brown from cigarette smoke and . . . he didn’t want to know. This place was a hazard and should be condemned.
“There are a few boxes of Grandpa’s belongings here,” he said. “I wanted to find some of his old journals.”
“Now why would you want those old things?” Barely sixty years old, his father wheezed like he was gasping his last breath.
