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Hanna calls herself fat. No, sweet little puppet. You are built for real men, men who need more of something deemed perfection. The more of her, the better.
“Obvious much?” Brenda taunts, watching me check out Hanna’s backside.
Hanna turns, now at the top of the stairs. “What?” she asks, looking between the both of us.
“Nothi—” Brenda goes to say, but I cut her off.
“She was watching me check out your ass.”
Hanna blushes, and Brenda gasps behind me. “I knew you were crude, but my hell, Theo. Mom would clutch her pearls. Hanna, blink twice if you’re in danger and need an out.”
“She does need an out, but good luck getting her out of my fucking hands.”
“I’m gonna be sick. You two need therapy. Seriously.” Brenda nudges my back to keep going, and Hanna’s blush never fades as she turns and heads down the hall opposite her bedroom.
“This is it,” she says, gesturing to the door.
“Yes, the room of a thousand corpses. Let us pray the town’s golden boy wasn’t also the town’s serial killer,” Brenda says, and I look at her.
“And you think we need therapy? You’re twisted, sis. Stop with all the true crime podcasts.”
“Listen, it’s always the ones who are loved the most.” She shrugs, and Hanna giggles.
That cute damn giggle.
Focus! I tell myself.
Lowering on my haunches, I start to pick at the lock on the door. A few twists and turns, some little tweaks, and the doorknob clicks, letting me know I’m in. I stand and turn the brass handle and look to Hanna. “You ready, greens?”
She plays with her hands anxiously and gnaws at her bottom lip. I take my thumb, bring it to her lips, and tug that sweet skin free.
“Look at me, Hanna. Are you ready? Are you sure you want to do this?” When she looks at me, I see her debate it, but I give her the best surge of psychological strength I can, letting her draw it from me.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
We step in, Hanna first, then Brenda and me. It is, in fact, his office.
“Good news! No bodies. That’s one point for Gramps.”
“Say something about dead bodies one more time, sis, and I will have you institutionalized. Seriously, I’m worried for you,” I tell her as my eyes focus on Hanna. She moves around the room slowly, touching the mahogany furniture, the bookcase first.
Looking at the books, she quietly says, “Classics. He has Brante in here. He liked to read.” She looks to us, but we both stay silent.
This is a moment for her. She needs this. There is a need to find answers or a place to belong, and some part of her believes it’s going to be in this room. And I actually feel that too. I think we all do.
She pulls out one book and opens it, her fingers delicately touching the pages. From here, they seem frayed a bit.
“Wow, this is a first edition. This must have cost him a fortune. I would have loved to own a book like this—a first edition.” Tucking the loose hair that falls from her ponytail behind her ear, she keeps looking through the book. The sun coming from the window frames her, casting a glow around her entire body. Her profile is perfect. Just as stunning as she is head-on. She is studying a book she claims to be a classic work of art, when I’m in fact looking at the most beautiful masterpiece ever to be cast in an aura of light.
I catch myself staring, stumbling on the thoughts I’m having, knowing damn well they aren’t something I should be feeling. They begin to suffocate me and give me the urge to push away instead of pull her in. My head is a mess, making me feel like my feet are cemented to the ground when all I want to do is run.
“I’m going to look in the drawers over there,” Brenda says, moving across the room.
“Yeah, I’ll check his desk too.” Hanna finally closes the book and moves to the large desk sitting in front of the huge window. She opens the top drawer, sifts through it, and closes it when she finds nothing. Moving to the next one, to the side, the bigger drawer, she pulls, but it doesn’t open.
“Theo, this one is locked. Can you pick it?”
I move, my feet feeling heavy, still stuck in my own thoughts. “Yeah.” I get down and unlock the drawer. Pulling it open, we see it is nearly filled to the brim with envelopes. We both look at each other, and I see it in her eyes. That fear she had coming to life—the answers will be within these envelopes.
All stamped with Return to Sender.
“That’s my mother’s name,” she chokes out.
“What is it?” Brenda walks over to us.
“Letters. Or something. But they have my mother’s name on them.”
