Buried Truth

by Caleb Whitaker

Chapter 13: Safety and Answers

   

  The title Burkeville Mansion is an overstatement. The building while technically big enough to be considered a mansion doesn’t live up to the expectations. The hotel has been remodeled in the past year, so it has a fresh coat of dark blue paint that looks like the scales of a blue devil. However, it’s actually a mundane structure with no real standout features to captivate the visitor. It appears the structure was made for a simple life on a larger scale.

  The parking lot is empty except for six vehicles. I eye each vehicle carefully. My vision has started getting a little blurry, which makes it hard to see the vehicles that are farther away. I look down at my bottle of scotch. I might be a little tipsy. Nah, I’m fine. A little eye trouble is definitely worth the way that stuff makes everything else feel. Forget the cars. Nobody would ever suspect us to be here.

  We walk up the yellow tinted steps to the front door of the hotel. The interior of the house looks very much like a modern hotel. The smell of abundant lemon bleach and other cleaning concoctions fill the room. There is a long counter with a woman behind it. We stop after we enter the lobby as Ryleigh tells me, “I’ll go get us checked in if you can handle getting the bags.”

  I nod in agreement, and then head back outside. I’m not that drunk. The five bags are in the back seat of the car. Once I get a grip on all of the bags, I return to the hotel without even dropping one item. When I make it inside, Ryleigh is taking a key from the woman behind the counter. She motions for me to go towards a hallway off the right side of the room. When we meet she explains, “We are on the second floor, room 11.”

  As you would expect, there are no elevators in the hotel since it was once a house. However, we do find a unique floral carved spiral staircase that leads us to the second floor. The staircase is old and creeks with every step. The wood rails are carved with an assortment of interconnected flowers that give the impression of wild vines sprouting upward waiting for a hand to hold them. The spiral curls and numbed senses briefly impede my vision. I clumsily grab at the vine while bracing myself in case I tumble back down the stairs. How much did I drink?

  When we reach the second floor, we find a hallway with what looks like entrances to seven rooms all on the same wall. There are two rooms to our right, three rooms in the middle of the hallway, then another staircase, and two more rooms to the left of it. The hallway looks somewhat intimidating to me. The lighting is low despite having several light fixtures throughout the narrow corridor.

  We turn left off the stairs and go to the first room we come across. As Ryleigh fiddles with the door, I become aware of five pictures hanging on the wall opposite of the rooms. It would all but be a blank wall running the length of the hallway, except for the staircases, if the hotel management had not decided to put up pictures. There are also candleholders on the wall filled with electric lights that would help fill in space if the pictures were not there. All in all, the pictures do bring the hallway to life.

  At a closer glance, the pictures that resemble photos are actually paintings of the mayor and his family. There used to be a famous painter that lived in the area back then, so if he got the commission, the choice to hang paintings does make some sense. We learned about the painter in school, but I don’t remember the painter's name. The name could have been forgotten for any number of reasons at this point. It’s not really important though, so I let the thought pass.

  The longer I stare at the different paintings the creepier the sensation gets. It feels like the portraits are staring into my soul, judging me for my past transgressions. I swear the mayor actually winks at me as the thought crosses my mind. Thus, when Ryleigh gets the door open, I don’t hesitate to dash into the room. Anywhere but the hallway.

  The first thing we come across is a bathroom to our left as we walk into a short, narrow hallway. The bathroom is small with only the bare necessities. I stare into the bathroom for a moment as a longing for a hot refreshing shower comes over me. Then, as we continue inward from the bathroom, the small walkway opens up into a bedroom.

  The room is a decent size, but it is bare and has a distinct mustiness to it. There is a queen bed centered on the left back wall. There are two small wooden nightstands on each side of the bed. An old bulky TV is located on the right wall directly in front of the bed. The last features are two windows directly in front of us and of course the door directly behind us.

  While looking around the room, I remark, “Well, it definitely isn’t the grandest of rooms, but it will do.”

  I take the bags over to the corner of the room located to the left of the bed. Ryleigh sprints to the bed and emphatically jumps with both arms spread wide. She lands in the middle of the mattress, the bed groans on impact and a pillow flies from the headboard. She mumbles something to herself as I walk over and plop down on the old bed. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, she kisses me on the cheek. After a few seconds of bitter passion, I can’t help but express “You kinda smell, sweetie.”

  She jokingly replies, “You don’t smell so good yourself! And you called me sweetie. That’s what you usually call me… Oh, that reminds me. Before I left my house this morning, I packed a bag full of some of your clothes that you left at my place. It’s in the trunk of the car. I’ll go get it, so we can get showers. That way we won’t smell.”

  She kisses me then heads off to get our clothes from the car. My stomach gurgles with emptiness prompting me to set out some food. I take out the bottle of scotch from the paper bag. What I find catches me a little off guard. The bottle is about a third of the way gone. Meaning I must of drank a little more than I meant to in the car. No wonder I feel so good right now.

  I set the bottle beside the TV and return to setting up the food. Once I finish with the food, I wander over to the windows. The parking lot is just in view along with some trees and a small field at the end of the property. I can see eight vehicles now in the parking lot. I can’t be sure because seeing double is a distinct possibility at this point. Nevertheless, I inspect each vehicle looking for a police decal but find none that I can see. Ryleigh reaches the car and pulls a bag out from her car.

  After watching her get the clothes, I return to the bed and turn on the TV. The softness of the bed feels amazing. My eyelids instantly feel weighted down in my skull, and my feet breathe as I kick off my shoes. I’ve never wanted to sleep more in my life.

  It’s sometime after noon, so the local news should be broadcasting in full effect. I don’t know if Burkeville reports Everton news, but it's worth a shot. Fighting my buzz and tiredness, I flip to the local news channel as I prop my head back against the one pillow that remains on the bed. A couple minutes later Ryleigh returns with the bag of clothes. She throws the bag of clothes down on the floor and hops up on the bed.

  We each grab a sandwich and some chips. I pour us something to drink in some cups from the market. I decide against my better judgment and pour myself some coke instead of scotch this time. The sandwich is delicious and satisfies my hunger while we make small talk until the news comes on.

  One of the first news stories is about my parents. I guess it’s a big enough story to travel out of Everton’s small station. It shows scenes of cops outside my parents’ house, and then a reporter explains the gruesome details of their murder. I instantly feel sick to my stomach as the reporter continues talking about their death and lives before their gruesome murder.

  Thankfully, I have eaten most of my sandwich by now because the reporter ruins any remaining enjoyment the sandwich could bring me. I place my plate on the floor beside the bed so that it's out of my way. Then the news report displays a slightly different angle of the murder story. My picture flashes across the screen along with my parents’ pictures. At the bottom of the screen, there is a box with the description ‘Breaking News: Son of the deceased determined by police officials to be a person of interest.’ The reporter goes on to explain that anyone with any information should call a special hotline.

  I
throw my head violently back against the pillow, and massage my eyes with one hand. “Great, I guess I’m a person of interest.”

  Ryleigh whispers back. “Believe me, you were never that interesting.

  “Well, I guess I am now.”

  I sit up in bed, looking her directly in the eyes, I plead, “Ok, we are safe now so tell me what is going on.”

  She turns, staring out the window, as I hold my breath. I’m hopeful that she will tell me what she knows this time. Turning back towards me she answers, “Fine, but promise you won’t hate me?”

  I don’t know what to say, so I do my typical nod of agreement. She continues, “I met you at the bar to celebrate with you. Your friends didn’t know about me, so we acted like we just met. We were trying to keep our relationship hidden.”

  I interject, “Why would we try to hide our relationship? That doesn’t make any sense. Plus, you said earlier my parents knew you. Why would they know you, if we were trying to keep our relationship hidden?”

  Her eyes water as if she is on the verge of crying. She fights the emerging tears as she continues, “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t… they would still be alive.”

  She finally breaks down and tears start flowing onto the bed. The sheets soak them up like a sponge leaving little wet spots speckled around her on the bed. Trying to regain control, she whimpers, “It’s my fault we had to keep our relationship a secret. When we met in college, my ex-boyfriend was stalking me. He followed me from the town I grew up in before college.”

  Tears turn into a loud uproar of audible emotions. She tries to speak, but can’t get anything out in between the sobs. I sit in silence, regretting my decision to impair myself with alcohol while dealing with this subject. I have no idea what to think about an ex-boyfriend. At least it's natural to have an ex, unlike trying to comfort her.

  After a few seconds, Ryleigh is able to return to her explanation. “For months, he kept showing up at my house or following me. I was so scared and didn’t really have anyone who was there for me. So, when I met you… It was just so different than anything I had ever experienced.”

  I wipe away a few tears from her face and ask, “Why didn’t you just go to the cops when he was stalking you?”

  She answers, “I did! Nobody, not even one person would ever believe me. Well, nobody that is until I met you.”

  So that’s why she doesn’t like going to the cops. She doesn’t trust them. Why would she think I would be mad at her for having a stalker? Who is this guy, and more importantly, why kill my parents?

  After a brief pause, I respond “Ok. That explains why we kept our relationship secret. You didn’t want him stalking our relationship. I get it, but what happened the night my parents were killed?”

  She sniffles, then says, "After we left, we headed to your parents' for dinner. They had called and rescheduled for dinner instead of lunch the next day."

  With the pieces falling into place, I ask, "So, we did go to my parents' for dinner? We were there?"

  She looks me in the eye, "Yes, we were there."

  A nervous feeling of discomfort flows from within my very soul while I pace the shrinking room. My body begins to tremble as all the different scenarios run through my mind. If we were at the house, then we could have been there for the murder. The thought nearly makes me gag.

  “Ryleigh, did we see the murder?”

  The question stabs into her more than I thought it would. Her eyes water while her face constricts into a stony, grief stricken display of emotion. “I didn’t, but I think you did. It was awful. I thought he would kill us too, but we got away.”

  I sit back on the bed, bracing myself against the headboard as the truth, I had suspected from the start, was finally unearthed. I was at the house the night my parents were killed, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it. How couldn’t I save my own parents? After everything I have strived to become, I still couldn’t even protect my family.

  Deep down somewhere inside me, I have been thinking that ultimately finding some answers would help me remember. That’s what happened after visiting the bar. A barrage of memories from the celebration party practically belted me just by being in the vicinity of the wretched place. However, my conclusion appears to be faulty. Because, as I sit staring down at the bed, no memories crawl upward into my thoughts. Not to mention I’m the one that actually found my parents the next day. You can’t get any closer than finding their mutilated bodies. It seems the memories related to the actual night at my parents’ house are buried deeper than I have been thinking. Apparently, there is more digging yet to be done.

  Searching for clarification, I ask. “Who killed them?”

  She doesn’t answer the question right away. The extra moment of silence only increases the hatred that is seeping into my heart for the person that ruined my life. How could someone do something like this? Who would murder an innocent couple in their own home? When she finally looks up from staring at the bed, I can tell this is what has been burdening her heart.

  “I’m so sorry. I never thought he would do something like this. He must have tracked me down somehow.” 

  “So, your psycho ex killed my parents. Why?”

  She fights the tears in her eyes, “I don’t know. I had gone to the bathroom. That’s when I heard some loud noises coming from the living room, so I cracked the bathroom door open. I saw him taking you and your parents upstairs. I was so scared I just shut the door and locked it. When I finally mustered enough strength to go look for y’all, you were at the bottom of the stairs all beat up.”

  “Wait. So, you just hid out in the damn bathroom while my parents were killed by your screwed up ex?”

  In a moment of unforgivable rage, I stand up and rifle the first thing I can see towards her head. Luckily for us both, the first thing I saw happened to be the pillow that was lying on the floor. The pillow strikes her in the chest. I expect her to throw something back at me, so I instantly back up a few steps. However, to her credit, she simply takes the hit and doesn’t retaliate.

  Instead of pacing the room like a bumbling lunatic, I go to the bathroom, slamming the door in my wake. I kick at the bottom of the sink until my foot begins to become sore and bruised. Needing something else to lash out at, I pick up the bar of soap and throw it as hard as I can into the shower. The soap bursts into a thousand pieces as it crashes up against the shower wall.

  I look into the mirror hanging above the sink. I have what seems like an uncontrollable urge to pound my fist into the smooth glass fixture. But in a moment of self-reflection, I let the anger and darkness slip away. This isn’t helping anything. If I keep this kind of behavior up, I’ll push away my only lead to finding out what happened that night. Or, maybe not remembering is better. I need another drink!