Page 109 of Finding Us
“It looks like it’s been there for a while. Besides, your father wasn’t found down here; he was upstairs in his bed.”
“I’m not enquiring about that cunt. I don’t give two fucks about when or how he died … I’m just glad he did.”
“Dude, that’s a bit harsh.”
“Harsh, are you fucking kidding me?” I yell. “That man would sometimes beat me so bad I’d piss blood for days? I was a kid, Connor, a defenceless fucking kid. And don’t even get me started on the things he did to my poor mum. The Honourable Warren Bradley … what a joke. He should’ve been in prison, not presiding in court. The man people saw outside of these four walls was a carefully constructed illusion. The real Warren Bradley was a malicious, spiteful, evil monster. The devil personified.”
He bows his head. “I’m sorry.”
Tearing the rug from his grip, I point to the stain, “I’m pretty sure this is my mother’s blood. The last memory I have of her is lying right here, in this spot, in a crumpled mess … it happened the night before she vanished. That bastard pushed her down the stairs.” I point to the landing above us. “He was standing at the top just looking down at her. Not rendering her aid … not calling for help. I heard her scream … it still fucking haunts me. When I came out of my room and asked if she was okay, he chased me back in there and threatened to kick my arse if I came out.”
“Shit,” I hear him mumble. I drop the rug and storm down the long corridor that runs parallel to the staircase. “Where are you going?”
“To look for answers.”
I’m expecting to find the office door locked, but surprisingly, it isn’t. I guess being here on his own meant it wasn’t necessary. It’s the first time I’ve ever stepped foot in this room, yet I don’t even stop to take any of it in; the anger that rages inside me—something only that man can fuel—has me wanting to smash this place to pieces.
My gaze quickly scans the room, and when I see a wooden filing cabinet in the back corner, I head straight for it. As I slide open the top drawer, I hear Connor enter. “Check the desk,” I tell him.
“What am I looking for?”
“I have no clue. Anything incriminating.”
My fingers skim through each folder, utilities, insurance, registration, bank statements … nothing out of the ordinary. “This drawer is locked,” Connor says. “Do you know where I’d find the key?”
I stop what I’m doing, glancing over my shoulder. “No clue.”
“Can you remember where he used to leave his house or car keys, it may be with them?”
I rack my brain for a second, it’s been so long since I’ve even thought of this place or that man. As I open my mouth to speak, a memory starts to play out in my head …
“Oh, my poor baby,” my mother whispers, leaning forward to blow air over my grazed knee. When her brown eyes move up to my face, I see tears glistening in them.
It’s been almost seventeen years since I lost her, and I’d forgotten just how beautiful she was. Her dark-brown hair is pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck and tiny round pearl earrings sit in each lobe. They match the one hanging from the pendant on the gold chain around her neck.
Over time, her features have faded and blurred in my mind, but this image of her is so clear … so vivid, I almost feel like I can reach out and touch her. Christ, I’d give anything to be able to hug her one more time, or tell her how much I love and miss her … to apologise for not being able to protect her.
I inhale a deep breath through my nose. She always used to smell so good, like the flowers in her garden.
Her hand skims lovingly down the side of my face, as her thumb gently swipes under my eye, catching the tear that just fell.
My eyelids drift shut, as I saviour the memory of her touch.
“Don’t cry, baby, mummy will make it all better for you.” She leans in, placing her lips on my forehead. “Let me get a Band-Aid, but I have to be quick, your father will be home any minute and I need to be at the door waiting to greet him when he arrives.”
She used to do that every night, not by choice, I’m sure.
I watch her scurry across the kitchen, and the skirt of the lemon dress she’s wearing sways with each step. She pushes up onto her toes, hastily grabbing a large cane basket out of one of the upper cabinets. There’s a sweet smile on her face as she makes her way back to me. She places the basket on the counter beside me. I look down at my injured knee, and notice my small hand resting on my thigh.
It’s not much bigger than Blake’s, so I must be young.
She squeezes a small amount of cream onto her finger, lightly dabbing it on my injury. I intake a sharp breath because it stings.
Her hand shakes, and I focus on the dark bruise that circles her wrist. “I’m sorry, baby boy,” she whispers. “This will help make it better and stop it from getting infected.”
I watch on as my mother wipes her finger on the apron that’s tied around her waist and rummages through the basket for the box of Band-Aids, but before she has a chance to find them, the front door slams closed. Her body instantly stiffens and panic sets in on her pretty face. It’s a look I’m familiar with, and I hate seeing her like this.
“Rebecca,” my father screams from down the hall, and she quickly slides her trembling hands under my arms, lifting me off the counter before turning and dashing from the room.
