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“In that case…word.”
27
FOR THE LAST THREE days I’ve been under a fog.
Just going through the motions as I make peace with what I now know to be the truth. Everything I knew is a lie. A tiny fib that at first seems innocent—a man finding love with a widow, wanting to take care of her and her small child as they navigate through their new normal. It has all the makings of the perfect daytime movie on one of the popular channels women fawn over.
But it’s not like that in reality. This story is a nightmare that I have not fully awoken from.
How can I? For years, I was nothing more than a servant to those two men—the same two that were supposed to be family. My protectors.
I did everything they told me to. Have been working to help pay bills and fund their vices so I could escape their threats for another day.
I’m a joke to them. Nothing but a pawn.
Truth is that the more I read, the more it stings. The angrier I am.
“Sick assholes,” I hiss out, putting my hair up in a loose bun before grabbing the next paper in the file Malcolm gave me. This one has Julian’s information, and I read through it for the thousandth time. Seeing in bold black ink where he’s from and the dynamic of his family makes me both happy and melancholic.
Happy because I can see they were good people. Sad because I will never have that with them.
You have Malcolm now.
And I do. God knows he’s been a saint as I sort my head.
I’m safe because of him. Because he cares.
I want to stay for him. Make him happy.
However, right now my focus is on my father’s life story on these next few pages:
How his parents were from Rome and came here when Dad was three.
What schools he went to, where they lived here in Chicago, and the pictures of my parents on their wedding day. The smiles on their faces brings one to my own, and how he looks at her reminds me of the way Malcolm gazes at me. It’s that same sweet and unguarded expression that makes my skin flush and heart beat fast.
Then there’s the knowledge that my father’s buried in the same mausoleum as my mother. That they’re resting together, and that every time I visit, he’s there listening too. Dad’s ashes lie in the space beside my mother’s. Something she did without anyone’s knowledge—without Marcus finding out—so she could be with him again someday.
The last few pages in this file explain the financial situation I’m in. What has been taken; the sale of Dad’s restaurant chain, and how at his death, everything he owned went to Mom and then me. The details of two hefty life insurance policies are here too, and while the amounts surprise me, learning that Marcus knew my father before his death doesn’t sit well with me.
A horrible feeling I can’t shake churns within my gut the more I think about it. The more I stare at the few pictures that Malcolm put inside the folder.
Why would my father associate with a man like him?
My guess is that it all comes down to money.
Back then it was his or hers, and now it’s mine. The Fosters want and have plans for it.
Knowing all these minute details helps me put together the pieces of a puzzle that were missing. Things that now make sense the more I think about it.
All my life I’ve thought that Alton and I are nothing alike. We differ in both personalities and looks. No resemblance whatsoever outside of our blue eyes, and his are a darker shade than mine. For years, I just thought that each kid took after one parent, but it’s so obvious to me now how wrong I was.
Mom wouldn’t hurt a fly, while Marcus doesn’t care about anyone other than himself. She was selfless to his selfish.
“I’ve been so blind,” I mutter to myself and rub my left eye. I’m tired. Just plain ol’ exhausted but can’t stop re-reading what these papers say. “How could Mom let him—”
“Breaking News,” comes from the TV then, stopping my train of thought. The local anchor is on the screen and tilting her iPad toward her. Her face shows no emotions while her eyes are wide, looking at someone beside her and then at the monitor. “An explosion occurred a few minutes ago at a warehouse near the South Side now known to be the headquarters of a local prostitution ring. Luckily, no one was on the premises when the blast occurred, and the authorities are searching for the identity of the owner.” She pauses and looks toward another camera. “We’ll have more for you soon as our team arrives on the scene. If you or someone you know has any information that can help arrest those responsible, please call the number on your screen.”
Doesn’t Alton rent a building in the South Side? I know I’ve seen the rental agreement for it.
