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As the next image reveals itself, I reach up and grab the bottle of wine and proceed to drink it straight, uncaring that I just vomited and that the taste of bile still lingers in my throat.
The next image is of my mom in the hospital, her beautiful face black and blue. One eye is swollen shut, and her ear is swollen. My fingers shake as they trace the delicate lines of her face. “Oh, Mom.” My heart aches as I set her picture on her pile, then look down at what I’m almost positive is a hospital report.
One word stands out amongst the rest—rape.
Tears burn behind my eyes, pouring over my lashes and down my cheeks to soak into my tank top.
I can’t read this.
I set it aside to read another time, when I can process the full scale of that report. Didn’t the girls say earlier that they were all mostly the product of rape?
As am I.
The thought sobers me enough to take another long drink of wine. There is still a pile of papers. Harlow was nothing if not thorough. I just don’t know how much more of this I can read, but I need to keep going.
My father was never arrested, according to the Vermont police report. He got a gentle slap on the wrist, but it’s the stack of police files thereafter that keeps the tears running down my face. He didn’t stop there.
My father stalked my mother. He beat her every chance he could get, until she just disappeared overnight.
It’s as though she just up and vanished until the day I ended up in the hospital for appendicitis.
Records of that day are next, and although I don’t have a single record of my birth, my name is right there in black and white.
My adopted name, that is—Charlotte Eloise Hart. There is no Jameson.
I tug and twist my lower lip as I flip to the next page. A familiar car is in this picture. It’s my parents’ Subaru, white and totaled and sitting upside down, but none of that matters. What matters is the officer in the background with cold eyes—my biological father.
I don’t know how long I stare at that image or how long I cry. All I know is I finish the bottle of wine and shove a chair under the door, then I gather all the papers, even the ones I couldn’t bring myself to read, and I shove them all in my backpack, then I grab another chair and shove it under Milo’s door.
I don’t just lock the bathroom door either. A chair gets shoved there as well, just in case someone gets through the other door. I’m heaving, sweating wine, and the sun is peeking over the horizon. Then and only then do I sit down and stuff everything I’m feeling into a little box inside me.
I have no idea where to go from here, but I do know I need to get the hell out of this house. Until I understandwhoI am, I can’t trust anyone. Not the guys, who must have known, and not Brooklyn, who definitely knows.
I can’t believe Jani was right.
Chapter Nine
Escape.The word echoes in my mind like a desperate plea, a prayer for relief from the tormenting thoughts that swirl within. My legs itch with the urge to flee the shadows of my past and the gaping hole my parents left behind. Each heartbeat is a reminder of their absence, a relentless drum that amplifies my desire for liberation.
The room feels like a cage, suffocating and oppressive. My body, burdened with the weight of memories and the unyielding ache of loss, longs for the freedom that eludes me. Sleep beckons, its seductive call promising a momentary respite, but I resist, afraid of the nightmares that could accompany slumber. I’m unwilling to surrender even these fleeting moments that keep my parents alive in my heart.
Since the sun first kissed the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold, I’ve remained rooted at the edge of Milo’s bed. Time slips through my fingers like sand, and yet, I am immobile, tethered to this place that holds a piece of my soul—a sanctuary that offers solace amidst the tempest of emotions.
My eyes are gritty and heavy from endless tears that stain my cheeks with the remnants of sorrow, and my face is a canvas painted with the hues of anguish. My mouth burns, not only from the acidic remnants of the wine I sought to drown my inner torment, but also from the unspoken words that linger, begging to be voiced.
On the floor lies an empty bottle—a silent witness to my pain and futile attempts at numbing my anguish—and beside it, the folder. The folder is a repository of secrets and revelations that have turned my world upside down. Its weight presses down on me with the burden of truth, of a life kept hidden from me.
Desmond knew.
A tempest of conflicting emotions rages within me, a whirlwind of anger, betrayal, and love—anger at my biological father for his secrets, betrayal for not knowing the truth, and love for the man who stepped in when my dad couldn’t. Conflicted, I hang my head, my heart heavy with the weight of truths I never sought.
There are no more tears left to shed, no more moments to dwell in the past. Milo will wake up soon, and I need to find the strength to get us out of here.
My dad is out there, and he is a piece of shit. The thought lingers, bitter and harsh, a jagged truth I can’t evade. It’s a reality I must confront as I navigate the tumultuous sea of my emotions and the storm that rages inside me.
Can I just go back to my life?
The weight of these questions bears down on me, a heavy burden I carry as I grapple with the newfound revelations. Everything has changed, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s a way to turn back the clock to return to the life I once knew.
