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Benedetto rubs my shoulder. "Your friends are psychopaths."
I can't help but giggle. "The justice system failed them, Daddy. They're seeking revenge the only way they know how."
I can't wait to watch them kill the men who hurt us. Lord knows I have a list of names, too. Maybe once they get their operation up and running, I'll ask Daddy to let me join in the kill.
Right now, he's reluctant to let me do it because he wants to protect me from any more trauma. But when I make progress on my therapy and my memory returns fully, I'll bet he'll change his mind.
Benedetto taps the window. "We're almost there."
* * *
The first thingI see is the weeping willow tree.
It rises from a patch of tall grass, swaying in the wind. Three enormous branches jut out from the side, tall and mighty. They support a platform high in the trunk.
I tug Benedetto's hand. "Look, Daddy." I rock back and forth on my feet. "It's my tree fort."
Benedetto holds my hand tight. "Are you sure, boy?" He pinches my ear. "Last time, you didn't remember the tree fort I took you to. Don't say this to pacify me."
I stare at the tree fort again in my family's backyard, then blow out a breath. This weeping willow isexactlylike my memories.
I guess it was a coincidence that the Bettencourts had a weeping willow tree with a fort, as well. I wonder if Wesley liked playing in his tree fort when he was younger.
I squeeze Ernie. "Yes, Daddy."
This is usually the part in my recollections where the fort fades to mist. Now, I know that the mist was the drugs my captors forced me to inhale when they slammed a rag over my mouth. That's how Ollie said they took him, so I figured they did the same to me.
Only this time, the tree fort doesn't fade into the land of forgotten memory. It stands tall, swaying in the wind. Sunlight dances off the branches, illuminating a webwork of nature's beauty. This is it. This is the one I recall.
Benedetto pushes me forward. "Go ahead, boy." He points to a rope swing dangling from a tall branch. "They have a rope swing. Play in it while I get your parents. They’re excited to see you."
I kiss his cheek. "Okay, Daddy. If you think that's best."
"You'd better not let another man take me.” I jab my finger in his face. "Evil men already stole me from this location once. I'll never speak to you if you let it happen again."
Benedetto tousles my hair. "I've got my gun on me. If the three Diavolo brothers pull up—we’re searching for them but we haven't found them yet—I’ll pop a cap in their asses."
Oh hell yes. My Daddy is more badass than 50 Cent.
"That's what your boy likes to hear." Walking up to Benedetto, I kiss his lips. "Keep me safe and protected. No one compares to you."
"Play in your swing, precious boy." Benedetto returns my kiss, then nibbles my lower lip. "Daddy will be right back."
Bidding Daddy farewell one last time, I rush toward the tree fort. At once, a barrage of memories washes over me. A gasp escapes me as I stare at the branches, the rope swing, the platform up top.
Oh Lord, I read so many books here. Hardy boys, Scooby Doo comics, forbidden romances. Nothing beat the feeling of sneaking up to my fort on a Saturday morning with a bowl of cereal in one hand, Ernie and a book in the other, and reading until my mother came to get me.
I leap on the rope swing, letting it sway back and forth. The breeze ruffles my hair, and I can't help but laugh as I drift in the wind. I climb the piece of rope, pushing myself to reach the platform.
Of course, this swing wasn't here when I was a boy; it's a new addition. Whenever I played in my fort, I used the wooden blocks my father nailed to the tree. But that doesn't matter now. I'm almost to the top and I’m re-experiencing the joys of my childhood. Could anything be better?
When I reach the platform, I can't help but pause for breath. "Holy smokes."
I touch the familiar cracked boards, the divots in the wood, the rickety walls you could never lean against too closely for fear of splinters. I glance out the window, studying my parents’ colossal mansion through the view, spotting my childhood bedroom on the third floor.
I even eye the tiny heart I engraved when I was ten and etched my initials in. I can't believe it's still here. I run my index finger over it, fighting off the tears welling up in my eyes.
Nothing's changed. I don't even know if anyone's been up here in the last eight years since I've been gone. But this tree fort stands strong, a tangible testament to the life I lived before my abductors took me.
