Chapter 15: Broken
“How long was I out of it?” I ask.
She closes her book while slightly tilting her head, her dark hair flowing over her face. “Ah, probably a little over two hours or so.”
My eyes droop down in their sockets, so I gently rub beneath them with my fingers. A great big yawn billows upward as Ryleigh gets off the bed. “That was the best rest I have gotten since that night. And guess what?”
She picks up a cup and pours herself something to drink. She mumbles back to me, “What?”
“I remember! I remember—”
Her cup plummets downward, crashing against the old wooden floor, brown liquid splattering out from the impact in every direction. She turns around, facing me, exhibiting a mixture of confusing emotions. Joy? Anger? Fear? Sympathy? I can’t tell.
Her fingers begin tracing her neckline as she disregards the pool of liquid on the floor. “What do you remember?”
“Well, at first I remembered the way we met. I could feel my emotions. I could see everything that was in the bar. It was like I was reliving it again. I swear that I even felt the rocks jabbing into me when we fell outside the bar.”
She steps through the pool of liquid, sending coke up her pant leg as she moves closer to the bed. “What about the night of the murder?”
“I remember us walking into their house and talking with them before dinner. You and my mom went to set the dinner tables. Then… I woke up. I don’t remember anything else.”
She lets out a deep screeching sigh. “That’s great. You are making progress, but I wish you hadn’t remembered the way we met. I was such a klutz.”
“Yeah, you were, but I was too.” The memory causes us both to laugh at the thought of us falling all over each other. “The memories just kind of happened once I got settled and fell asleep.”
“It’s probably because you were relaxed.”
I use some toilet paper to clean up the liquid from the floor as Ryleigh tries to clean herself up. That was strange. She practically freaked out when I mentioned remembering. My memories are just as important to her as they are to me, and even I said they are the key to figuring out what to do. I hope they come back before her ex finds us. That part of the mystery could have deadly ramifications if we don’t get a handle on it.
The toilet paper soaks up the spilt coke with ease, but it takes several wipes before all the residue is removed from the floor. I don’t see Ryleigh in the room, so I walk back to the bathroom with the coke soiled clump of paper in my hands. She is looking into the mirror trying to rid her shirt from some wet stains. I throw the wet toilet paper in the toilet and flush it. “You ok?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m fine. I was just hoping you remembered everything. I still don’t know why he would kill your parents. I’m just worried he will find us and do the same.”
I place my hand on the back of her shoulder as the image of the burly man with a snake tattoo on his arm flashes before my eyes. “He won’t I promise.”
She smiles into the mirror. The reflection allows me to see the comfort in her eyes. “I think I’m going to get a shower. This coke isn’t coming out, and it’s making me feel gross.”
“That’s fine. I was thinking about taking a walk. I need to get out of here for a few minutes.”
“Ok, just be careful. The police are still after you so don’t be gone too long.”
She shuts the bathroom door as I return to the bed. My memory is starting to come back, in bits and pieces, and I have to figure out what to do. She’s waiting on me to come up with some kind of plan. So, that is what I’m going to have to do. Make a plan, and find somewhere else that we can hide out tomorrow.
My hands slide down the side of my pant leg searching for my phone. I find nothing, so I flip my pockets inside out. Nothing. Where is my phone? I haven’t taken it out of my pocket since the car ride, when I texted the unknown number. So, where has it gotten off to?
In order to look under the bed, I must bend down on my hands and knees. Dust and dirt coat the floor under the bed, but no phone. Spider! I yank my hand back out from under the bed, shaking it wildly. My skin on my arm begins to tingle which makes me stand up and run across the room flailing my limbs. I run my fingers across my skin from head to toe. But, I can’t find the spider.
Ugh, I hate spiders so freaking much. Where’s my phone? I turn around in circles checking the various places my phone could have wandered off to, like the spider. I could have left it in the car. As I’m about to head out, I look toward the television and my bottle of Scotch. There beside the Scotch is my phone.
Hmm, I don’t remember putting it by the Scotch, must have though. I grab the phone, and place it into my pocket. Since I’m here, I might as well get that drink. The bottle feels light in my hands as I lift it from the desk. The cool glass touches my lips as the warm liquid flows down my throat.
Ah, much better. I place the bottle back down by the television, alive once again, as I walk toward the door. My courage is rising and my senses are clearing. I’m ready to face whatever I need to face to get us through this. The door opens and the bleak hallway comes into view. The mayor’s painting stares back at me, with his beady eyes haunting me, for being an intruder moping about in his home.
For whatever reason, I’m focused on the lively painting to the point that I barely notice the door closing behind me. With a thud, the door bangs shut, up against my back, which makes me jump around with my fists up. “Aug! Oh my gosh!” I shriek.
It’s just a door. Come on! What am I doing? I could have hit Ryleigh if that were her behind me. The mayor looks at me in amusement with his smirk getting wider by the second. It’s just an old painting. A dead mayor isn’t going to hurt me. My focus is still on the painting when out of the corner of my eye, a shadow floats down the stairs.
Feeling myself getting off task, I dismiss the shadow as a person walking down the stairs. It could easily be a person who is staying at the hotel that doesn’t what to do me harm. I didn’t leave the room to fall into a trap created by my absurd feelings. I came out to get a new perspective.
Walking the dimly lit hallway doesn’t help put my mind to ease. Luckily, it is a short walk to the spiral staircase, but the killer could have tracked us to the hotel by now. I glare down at the lower levels of the staircase from above in search of a masked assailant. There is a person looking up from the bottom level. But the person looks like a woman with sunglasses and a coat on, which helps cover her figure. It seems odd to me that a woman would be wearing winter attire when it is probably almost 90 degrees outside today.
There’s something eerily familiar about the young woman, but her wardrobe makes it hard to pinpoint exactly what characteristic is tickling my subconscious. But there is definitely something. The woman exits the staircase as an elderly man brushes by here heading up the stairs. I dash down the steps towards the man that will soon meet me in the middle. Once I exit the staircase, I will have to quickly get outside in order to catch up to the woman.
The man comes around the spiral and his features, clear as day, slap me in the face. For a second, my heart and soul gleam with happiness. It’s my dad! My pace slows as we meet. His suit precisely matches one of my dad’s, even down to the tie and cuff links. But as we pass each other, his features morph into a balding man that shares only a slight resemblance to my father.
I pause, watching the man spiral his way to the top floor, before slowly continuing down the staircase, holding onto the spiral railing with a tight grip the whole way. I’m well aware that a common symptom of grieving the loss of a loved one is thinking you see them, but that was mind boggling. One second my dad was walking right in front of me, then the next second it was some stranger. The same thing probably happened with the young woman. My mind is now projecting familiar images upon complete strangers. But how do I decipher what is projection and what is clear danger?
I reach the bottom of the staircase still shaken by seeing the image of my dad. The
only person in the lobby is a receptionist that sits behind a desk, his hand firmly gripping a pen as he scans a document, completely unaware of my presence. My knees begin to buckle as I stare at the unsuspecting hotel employee. My picture has been shown on the news, probably other media outlets as well, so one wrong move and I’m nothing but burnt toast. I calmly walk up to the receptionist’s desk with my hands in my pockets to hide my nerves. “Do y’all have a phone, and a computer I could use?”
The middle-aged man suspiciously looks up from his paperwork. “We have one computer in the first room down the right hallway. But, I’m sorry we don’t have any customer phones.”
“Thanks.”
As divine favor would have it, as I turn to walk away, he goes to answer a phone, but calls out to me before answering it. “Sir! If you really need to make a call, I will let you use the office phone.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
The computer room is filled with only a wooden desk, notepad, and chair to accompany the one computer. The simple layout makes it more than obvious that the room doesn’t get much use. This is a bad idea. I can’t trust her. She will go to the cops after we talk, if she even talks to me at all. Deep down, she hates me, but I deserve it for hurting her as I did. Why would she help?
I click on the internet browser and type in an email address. A while back, I downloaded all my contact information into an email file. It contains phone numbers, addresses, mailing information and pretty much anything else I could ever need to contact someone. I created it as a safety precaution because I have a tendency to break or misplace my phones. I don’t think the police would know about the email because I actually created it while I was drunk at a friend’s house, which is why the email is in his name. It was a joke that was a lot funnier when I was under the influence of alcohol.
When I sobered up, I decided to make use of it by creating the contact file along with a few other documents. For the first time, since I programmed the information into the email file, the email account will be used for a purpose, other than stupidity. You would think a man that made a living working with numbers would be able to compute one seven-digit number from memory, but that has never been one of my skills. Therefore, I find my sisters contact information and copy it onto a small sticky note lying on the desk.
I then return to the lobby where the receptionist shows me to the office phone, which will at least be safer than my cell phone. I dial the number before I rethink what I’m doing. My sister answers the phone.
“Alice… Don’t freak out. I need your help.”
“Ryan! What the hell are you doing? Why would you think I would want to talk to you right now?”
“Shh. I need your help sis. I didn’t kill them, but someone is trying to kill me. Please-”
Her voice spews out anger across the line, “How am I supposed to believe you? You are running from the cops Ryan. You might not have killed them, but you got them killed! I know it.”
Wow, she is taking this well. I turn, glancing at the receptionist, who waiting patiently by the desk with his pen tightly gripped. “Honestly, I don’t know. You might be right or you might not. It’s your call. But I need your help. Please-”
The phone line goes dead for a few seconds. Alice can still be heard breathing on the line, but she isn’t speaking. I’m an idiot! She is never going to help. I don’t blame her. I go to hang up the phone, but Alice returns to the line just before I end the call. “Ok. I’ll help you just this one time. But don’t call again, or I will tell the police. You got it?”
“Yeah, thanks sis.”
In a sarcastic tone she asks, “What do you need? Before I change my mind.”
“I remember when I got to mom and dad’s that night. Dad took me to the office and showed me a file with the name Gate on it. He was about to tell me something, but I can’t remember what he said. Do you have any clue what he wanted to tell us?”
She asks, “You said it had the name Gate on it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I went to dad’s office this morning to pick up some of his stuff to set up at the funeral. The office personnel said there was a break in a few nights ago, but that nothing of major importance was stolen. While I was getting some of his things, I found a notepad with his shorthand written on it. You know how dad was, always very particular about his special notes. I was curious as to what he was working on, so I deciphered one of the lines, and it said, ‘Gate’s Fortune’.”
I respond, “Huh, do have any clue what it means?”
“No, I have never heard of it.”
“Do you have the note?”
Her voice lowers, until she is barely hearable, “No the police searched the office and didn’t think anything there tied in with the murder. I didn’t even tell them about the note, so it should still be in his office.”
“Ok. Thanks. One last favor. Do you know somewhere I could go until I figure this out? I’m safe right now, but probably not for long.”
The line goes still as doubts begin to seep into my mind. Did I push her too far? Her voice returns to the phone even lower than before, “The only place I can think of would be the Wilkerson’s cabin, the one we would go hide out in as teenagers. But the police might know about it. It would be safer if you just turned yourself in Ryan.”
“I can’t. They think I did this, and there is someone else after me. I just can’t trust them.”
She replies in a gruff voice, “Then this is the end of the line for us. I don’t know what happened, but I can’t have any more to do with it. And Ryan, I swear if you did have something to do with our parents being killed, then I will be the one you need to be worried about.”
“I understand. Thanks, sis, for everything.”
I hang the phone up as a small tear rolls down my cheek. I should have never doubted her. I take my fingers and nervously scratch at my head. So, what is with that Gate file, and how does it tie into my parents’ death? And Gate’s Fortune? What does that mean? What does any of this mean?
Buried Truth Page 15