36
Griffin
I sit in my home office, going through a million emails and overviewing project plans. Business has been good for many years and shows no signs of abating. I’m a wanted man. My designs, my building skills, my extremely knowledgeable teams, all in high demand. And I like it. It keeps me busy. Keeps me focused. Keeps my brain from sinking into thoughts and feelings that aren’t worth remembering. It also keeps my bank balance growing to an obscene amount, so much so, I have no idea what to do with it all.
I have investments. I’ve got real estate. I’ve got my own jet. None of it matters, though. None of it has ever been my driving force.
But the woman who shares my bed and her son who rests down the hall have my full attention.
They got home from the bakery, her working hard to build something for herself and her son. The two of them are now well known in Whispers, the locals supporting her like I never knew they could.
Now they’re part of my life, this is how I spend my days. In my home office, on calls. Video conferences to review site plans with my team managers. I’ll have to start flying out to sign off on plans and builds soon, but so far, I’ve managed it all okay.
Because the thought of being away from her makes me nauseous. Not sure how it happened. Not sure what magic voodoo that woman has over me, but she has cast her spell and left me entirely at her mercy, and I don’t ever want to leave her side.
It’s not a feeling I know well. But with her, it feels natural.
I rub my eyes, my vision blurring from all the computer work, and sigh when my cell rings.
“Sawyer.” Sitting in his office for most of that day and telling him everything that’s happened was both cathartic and overwhelming. I’ve never been to therapy. I spoke to a woman at child services once as a kid. I still remember her purple hair and dark eyeliner and the way she smelled of cigarettes so thickly I almost choked being next to her. She had a cackly voice to match her bad habit.
But after one session, I knew it wasn’t for me. What good could come of talking about all the bad things in life? So instead, I ran. Got in trouble, ran again. Ran all the way to Whispers, where I’m still running. Until now.
“Hey, Griff. So I have some information.” He’s not jovial. Not making jokes. This is Sawyer in lawyer mode, and I feel the heaviness settle in my chest, knowing I’m not going to like what he’s about to say.
“Go on.”
“Well, your father was released early. Seems he had some notable good behavior while in jail, a model prisoner, by the looks of his record.”
“Model fucking prisoner…” I mumble, my shoulders tensing and my stomach churning.
“So he served his time but had close to five years cut off his total sentence, which means he’s now out.”
“Fuck.” I knew this day would come. He didn’t get life, even though he took theirs. He was charged with second degree manslaughter. From what I understand from the records, his lawyer pushed that the incident wasn’t premeditated. He was under the influence and his violence was uncharacteristic.
If you had asked me, it was very characteristic. Happened every fucking Friday night. And again on Sunday if his football team didn’t win. But nobody asked me. As a twelve-year-old, I was whisked into foster care and never looked at again.
“Looks like he’s living in a housing support service somewhere in Missouri.”
I pull in a deep breath. I travel to a lot of places, but Missouri is one place I’ve never been back to. I left as a delinquent teen and never once returned.
“He has restrictions. Needs to check in weekly with his parole officer. Not allowed to travel out of state. He’s working at the local supermarket, stocking shelves, but otherwise, so far, he’s been pretty quiet. Sticking to his requirements.”
“Piece of shit…” I’m not happy. Not happy that this is happening. Now or at all. I remember the phone call I got a month or so ago, along with that more recent text.
“When was he released?” I ask out of curiosity.
“Looks to be two months ago,” Sawyer tells me, and I nod. The puzzle pieces fall into place. I never once visited him in prison. Never once wrote. He didn’t either. Not sure why he’d be trying to contact me now. But I remember his voice like I spoke to him yesterday. I know it was him who called me that night.
I never changed my name or identity. One quick look online, and there’s a variety of articles and media about me. Including my billionaire status. Even though I keep my life as low-key as possible, my business speaks for itself, and people like to brag to their friends and strangers on the internet when they move into their luxury mansions. My name is mentioned repeatedly in those posts.
“I had a look over everything. Given his parole conditions, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“It’d be his death sentence if he came looking for me.” I don’t carry a gun, but maybe that’s something I need to consider.
“As your lawyer, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. But when I spoke to his parole officer to clarify these things, he mentioned that your father was wanting to talk to you. Reach out to you.”
“He tried. I don’t want anything to do with him,” I grit out, never wanting to think of that asshole again.
