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My father stood, his pants down around his ankles, as a young Koah kneeled before him. The back of Koah’s head faced the camera, thankfully blocking my father’s nakedness, but it was my father’s large hand, his wedding ring that matched the one I was wearing still on his ring finger, pressing on the back of Koah’s head that sent a roar of nausea through me. I squeezed my eyes closed so tightly black shapes began to dance against my lids, and when I opened them again, I prayed that I hadn’t seen things correctly.
I had.
I slammed the picture face down on the floor and physically gagged. There had to be some kind of explanation. There had to be a reason for Koah to be kneeling in front of my naked father. It wasn’t what it looked like. Something else was going on.
Even as these thoughts ran through my mind, I knew I would never find enough explanation. There would never be a good enough reason for Koah to be in a room with my naked father, much less on his knees in front of him. There was no denying what was occurring in the picture.
The more pictures I pulled out of the box, the more my stomach turned with nausea. Poor Koah was featured in each photo. Lying on the couch naked while my father touched him in places no young boy should ever be touched—on his hands and knees with a gag in his mouth—standing in front of my naked father with a look of absolute terror on his sweet face.
Then things changed—shifted once again, leaving me breathless and dying a little more inside.
As I flipped through the photos, the faces changed. There were pictures of Koah, but there were also pictures of other young boys. I recognized a few of them from our old neighborhood, but one boy, in particular, I remembered being friends with Koah for a brief time. His name was Andrew, and he and Koah used to ride their bikes together in front of the house.
My dad used to take them for pizza, and I would get upset that I couldn’t go. I never understood why I wasn’t allowed, but as I stared down at the disgusting pictures, I had an idea.
The pictures told a story of childhood trauma and molestation—of young boys being forced to give away their innocence to a man I had once thought hung the moon. How could something so despicable occur in a place that held so much of my happiness? My home. My father. My life. It was all a facade.
Tears of the truth dripped from my chin, splashing onto the photos in my hands. The image of my father grinning back at me caught my attention, and I swiped it from the floor and ripped it into pieces, screaming into the wrecked room as if I were reliving the death of my dad all over again.
The man I had once calledDaddywas gone, or had he ever really existed? The man I knew and loved was a lie, and the truth was in the photos hidden in a stained envelope locked away in a dusty wooden box beneath the dresser of my worst enemy.
Lorne Walsh.
My father.
There was nothing innocent about the man. The truth was, he had rotted precisely where he belonged. He died, leaving a void in my heart and a plethora of dark and repulsive secrets.
Buried with him was the innocence of countless young boys who would never get justice for what he did to them. They were trapped in a wooden box much larger than the one Koah hid his disgrace in, six feet under the cold earth, and they would never be free.
Then a thought hit me like a pile of bricks. So hard that I grabbed at my chest and dug my nails into my hoodie.
Was it only young boys?
No.
Not my Gracie.
Quickly, I flipped through the remaining pictures, searching for Gracie’s face. I wasn’t sure what I would do if I found out he molested her as well, but I continued to look regardless of how many times I gagged at what I was seeing. Well over fifty pictures were in the envelope, and while many faces stared back at me, there was no Gracie.
Once I reached the last photo, I tossed them and hugged my knees to my chest. I was sweating and hyperventilating. Bile burned the back of my throat, and I swallowed, trying to stop myself from puking. I had wanted information on my father and got precisely that.
The doorknob rattled, and I jumped. I was sure I had locked it behind me, but I realized I hadn't as the knob turned and the door slowly opened. Music from the party rushed into the room like a wave of vibrations before Koah appeared. His eyes widened as he scanned the mess I had made of his things, and then his gaze clashed with mine.
“Tori? What the fuck?”
He moved into the room and closed the door behind him, again shutting out the music.
I was still crying, so he floated in my vision when I looked up at him from my spot on the floor. “I’m so sorry, Koah.” I sniffed, swiping at the snot dripping from my nose. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t.”
I was sorry about so many things. The way I had treated him. The stuff I blamed him for. The fact that I had trashed his personal space, but more than anything, I was sorry I didn’t know the man I loved beyond reason had violated him in hundreds of different ways.
He looked down at me in confusion, his hands resting on his hips, but when he saw the photos scattered around me and the unlocked box sitting at my side, his expression dropped, and the color drained from his face.
He ran his palms roughly down his face and squeezed his eyes closed. “How did you find that?” he asked, and his voice broke with his words.
I opened my mouth to answer him but couldn’t find the words. The things I saw in the photos had stolen my ability to think clearly. All I knew was for the first time since my father was sentenced, I wanted to reach out and comfort Koah.
His expression changed from one of remorse and pain to one of rage. His eyes blazed down at me, fire flickering in their depths, and he exploded.
