The Surviving Trace

by Calia Read

  As quietly yet urgently as possible, Asa closes the door. The basement staircase is dark, making it impossible to tell where I’m going. My left hand touches the cold brick wall next to me as we make our way down the stairs.

  “Do you have a key?” Asa asks.

  Étienne shakes his head. I can’t see him very well, but he’s leaning more heavily against me. He’s losing too much blood. I squeeze his hip.

  “Étienne, do you have a key?” I say.

  He jerks once as if I’ve woken him. It takes him a few seconds to reply. “No. Didn’t have enough time.”

  My eyes finally adjust to the dark, and we make it down the stairs without either of us falling. Impatiently, I wait for Asa. He looks around the narrow flight of stairs, searching for anything that can serve as a barrier. He grabs a piece of plywood and shoves it beneath the doorknob.

  “It’s the best we’ve got,” he says and rushes down the stairs.

  When Asa resumes his position on the opposite side of Étienne, we desperately search for a place to hide. This basement is massive, easily spanning the entire square footage of the first floor.

  “Have you been down here before?” I ask Asa.

  “Once, when we were kids,” he replies as he looks around, searching for a place to hide.

  Above us, the heavy sound of footsteps reverberates.

  “Let’s keep moving,” I say, my voice taking on a frantic tone. I want to get far away from the door, but at the same time, moving away from the only exit means we’re trapped. All we can do is try to and wait him out.

  Asa and I move as fast as possible with Étienne between us. My muscles are beginning to scream in protest, but I need to keep going so we can find a place to hide and help Étienne as best as I can.

  We’re surrounded by bricks and mortar. In some areas, the bricks are separating, allowing water to leak in and travel down the length of the wall. The moisture collects in the middle of the floor and only magnifies the dank smell. The basement is a far cry from the opulence of just one floor up. It’s a whole other world down here.

  “Few more steps and make a right,” Étienne grunts.

  Asa and I follow his lead. Sure enough, there’s an open space to the right. A bulb dangles from the ceiling; the wires look perilously close to either breaking apart or catching on fire from all the water leaking from the walls. Maybe that’s why it keeps flickering on and off.

  Wood shelves line the wall, practically reaching the ceiling. Most of the shelves are empty, with the exception of families of spiders and their cobwebs. On a few shelves are dirty mason jars, wooden boxes, glassware, and miscellaneous items. Pressed against the other wall are broken pieces of furniture.

  Hiding in such an open area may not be a smart idea, but whoever is upstairs won’t be expecting that. Besides, the stacked boxes and broken furniture almost serve as a makeshift cover. The lower shelves, which are relatively empty, are high up off the ground, allowing us a good place to sit and rest.

  Reaching over Étienne, I tap Asa’s shoulder as the noises above our heads grow louder. I point to the spot beneath the shelves. “How about there?”

  He nods. “It will do.”

  We make quick work of moving in that direction. First, we gently place Étienne down. There’s no way we can let go of him without causing him pain though. He bites back a curse as I release his arm and allow his head to fall back against the wall. Immediately, I sit next to his right. Asa is to his left.

  The minute my back touches the wall, I swear every muscle in my body sighs with relief. I close my eyes and exhale before I turn toward Étienne and try to peer at his wound. Even with the dim lighting, I can see the bullet is deeply embedded.

  I’ve never been in a medical emergency. My knowledge of the inner workings of the human body is slim, but I know enough to realize that I need to compress the wound first and foremost. I reach toward Étienne, and he winces and tries to pull away.

  “Étienne, I have to stop the bleeding,” I say.

  “Don’t touch it,” he says through gritted teeth. “It feels like fire.”

  “Let her look so we can help,” Asa says.

  With Asa’s help, we manage to tear off the bloody sleeve, revealing the wound. I peer closer and try not to flinch. Since the bullet hit him on his lower shoulder, near his chest, I can see fatty tissue and some muscle surrounding the bullet.

  “Doesn’t look like the bullet nicked any arteries,” Asa remarks.

  I nod, gather up the hem of my dress to my knees, and tear pieces off the dress. My hands go on autopilot, tearing one strip of cloth at a time and handing it to Asa. Over and over I repeat the process until the hem of my dress is in tatters.

  Asa uses the rags to apply pressure to the wound. Étienne swears softly and his head lolls forward. Sweat forms around his temple, and within seconds, blood soaks the cloth. Asa tosses the material away and grabs more pieces of my dress to press against the wound. Étienne doesn’t scream or fight even though I’m sure he’s dying too.

  “We need to figure out how to get out of here. Étienne needs medical attention immediately, or we have to try to get the bullet out ourselves.”

  The thought of digging into Étienne’s shoulder for the bullet makes my stomach churn.

  My aversion must show on my face because Asa says firmly, “Serene, we have to. It’s the only choice.”

  Swallowing back my fear and doubt, I sit on my knees and lean in. “What do you need me to do?”

  Asa removes the cloth. “See the bullet?”

  Before the fresh, warm blood oozes out of the wound, I see it clearly and nod.

  “If it were any deeper, it would be best just to leave it in there, but it’s so close to the surface. I need you to dig it out.”

  “Me? Why me?” I all but shriek.

  “Because you have the smallest fingers between the both of us.”

  If this were anyone else, I would haul ass and say no way. Or perhaps I would go vomit in a corner. But this is Étienne. I glance at his face. He’s growing paler by the second. As much as I don’t want to do this, Asa is right. We need to remove the bullet, or Étienne will bleed out.

  Exhaling loudly, I try to calm my nerves. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  “This is gonna hurt like hell,” Asa warns Étienne before he hands him a wad of clean cloth and tells him to bite on it.

  What happens after that is all a blur. I remember Étienne screaming and biting on pieces of my dress as Asa instructed me to use one finger to scoop out the bullet. Two fingers could cause further damage to the surrounding tissue. My forefinger sank into the wound, causing blood to gush out. Asa told me not to be alarmed. My heart raced the whole time, but not once did I think of stopping. I knew I was causing Étienne insurmountable pain, but all I could think about was getting the bullet out. It was right there. I was so nervous that it took me three tries. It didn’t help that I could hear the man above us. His voice was faint as he searched the house, but I heard him calling for Étienne.

  Finally, after what seems like an hour, I hold the bullet in my bloodied hands. “Got it!”

  Étienne promptly drops his head into my lap like a rag doll.

  “Shit,” Asa hisses. He grabs more clean makeshift rags and applies pressure to the wound.

  Protectively, I wrap my hands around Étienne’s head and push the hair out of his face, which only smears blood across his face and mattes his hair. It doesn’t matter. That’s superficial. What matters is Étienne. “Is he okay?”

  Asa picks up Étienne’s wrist and waits a few seconds before he nods. “He’s fine. Pulse is normal and strong. Most likely passed out from the pain.” He looks away from the wound and at me. “You did well.”

  That’s the first time Asa Calhoun has ever paid me a compliment. The circumstances aren’t exactly ideal, but I’ll take it. I give him a nod. “Thank you. You’re a good coach.”

  He shrugs, and we sit there. As the minutes tick by, Étienne goes in and ou
t of consciousness. My worry grows each time. Soon Asa gets the bleeding under control. He has me continue to put pressure on the wound while he takes the remaining stripes of my ripped dress and ties them together. Curiously, I watch him.

  Once he’s done, he sighs and gestures to Étienne. “I need you to continue to apply pressure to the wound and push him to the upright position on the count of three, okay?”

  Before I can ask what he’s planning to do, he starts counting. The next thing I know, Asa says three and we push him up. Étienne moans in protest, but I don’t think he knows what’s happening. That’s probably for the best. The less pain he feels, the better.

  With lightning speed, Asa uses the rest of the dress as a makeshift sling, creating a figure-eight with one loop around his armpit and the other extending to his opposite shoulder, leaving the perfect amount of pressure on the wound. When Asa’s done, he lets go. Étienne drops back into my lap, his eyes fluttering open and closed. My fingernails are caked with dirt, my hands filthy. That doesn’t stop me from brushing my fingers across his skin. I’m only spreading dirt across his face, but I can’t not touch him. My minutes and seconds with him are down to the wire.

  The footsteps become louder and louder. They’re so powerful that flecks of dust rain down on our heads. I can’t stop the small whimper that escapes my lips. I’m terrified. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this scared before in my life.

  We’re a reasonable distance from the basement door, but I hear the knob rattle. My breath becomes stuck in my throat. Seconds later, there’s a pounding. Then kicking. A massive crash resounds through the room.

  Étienne’s eyes open. “He’s comin.’”

  “It’s okay,” I say soothingly.

  “It’s all over from here,” Étienne remarks.

  Slowly, the man walks down the stairs, almost to torture yet warn us that he’s coming closer. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

  Asa and I look at each other, and for the first time, I see fear in his eyes. I clutch Étienne a bit tighter. His breathing is becoming slower, more shallow, as if every breath is a chore. I didn’t come back through time in vain. I will protect Étienne with everything I have. Whoever is after him will have to go through Asa and me.

  “I know you’re down here,” the voice says, so close I can feel it against my neck.

  A long shadow appears on the concrete floor. I brace myself for his appearance. At first, he walks past us, his gun dangling in his right hand. He turns his head to the left and then to the right. To my horror, he sees us.

  My mouth drops open at the same time my heart sinks to my stomach.

  All this time, I’ve been thinking that Asa Calhoun was laying landmines for Étienne. It’s Edward Hill.

  FROM THE MOMENT we take our first breath in this world, we become part of history. Our births are documented and our lives chronicled by a series of pictures, videos, and words, and most importantly by our actions. If you’re lucky enough, you grow up with a loving family where you learn right from wrong. But no one’s perfect. At some point in our lives, we all lie, we all hurt someone. Whether it’s through words or physical wounds, it doesn’t matter. We are all guilty. It’s what we do after the suffering that matters the most.

  Edward never took the time to correct all the mistakes he made, because he felt no guilt. Therefore, they were never eradicated. Instead, his sins drifted down to his children and his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren.

  We were the ones to suffer.

  I look at my great-great-grandfather Edward Hill—or better known in my time as Teddy Parow—with fresh eyes. Every time I’ve seen him before, he’s always been quiet and composed. A man of few words. I never once considered him as a suspect. He didn’t seem to have it in him, but as I look at him now, I realize that quiet, kind facade was all a ruse. His eyes are cold and emotionless as he looks between the three of us.

  He glances at Asa. “What are you doing here?”

  “After you were finished pleading with Étienne for your job back this mornin’, I came with Étienne to pick up the ledger I created to prove that you were embezzling money from the company, but I needed the evidence before I presented it to Étienne.”

  So that’s why Étienne was scuffed up when I saw him earlier.

  Edward’s eyes narrow at him. “So you brought it to his attention?”

  Asa looks at me from the corner of his eye. He knows I stole the ledger. “Yes.”

  “How could you do this, Edward?” Étienne whispers with an anguished groan.

  Edward shows no remorse. Just smiles. “You mean you never knew it was me?”

  “Not until I read the ledger Asa put together.”

  Edward’s gaze flicks between Étienne and Asa. His smile never wavers as he kneels. He acts as though he’s ready to tell a vital secret, even though his gun’s still aimed at Étienne. “I’m quiet, but never discredit me. I see and hear everything. I have no guilt usin’ that for my gain.”

  The three of us say nothing.

  With a heavy sigh, Edward stands and paces slowly. He stares at Étienne with such a level of hatred that it almost takes my breath away. “Do you know what I don’t understand, Étienne? I don’t understand how Adrien could take me under his wing, teach me everythin’ I know, call me son, make me feel as though I was part of your family. He knew my father was a good for nothin’ son of a bitch who ran out when I was a child. He knew my mother was barely makin’ ends meet. And then when he passed away, he left me with nothin’!”

  “You still had a job,” Asa, whose sense of honor is peculiarly stronger than his common sense, chimes in.

  I want to tell Asa to shut up. Edward is a man unhinged. One false step, one wrong word, and he could shoot us all.

  Edward whirls and points his gun at Asa. “I’m not talkin’ to you!”

  For a horrible second, I think he’s going to pull the trigger. I flinch, but the gun never goes off. Asa stubbornly stares back at him and says nothing else.

  Edward lowers the gun with deliberate slowness and keeps his eyes on Asa. “Am I gonna hear another word from you?”

  The seconds tick by, then Asa clears his throat. “No.”

  Edward’s lips kick up into a small smirk. “Very good.” Abruptly, he swings the gun in my direction. I shrink back as much as I possibly can. “And you? Will I hear a word from you?”

  Quickly, I shake my head. I’m so scared, I think I’m going to pee my pants.

  He smirks. “Good.” Edward focuses on Étienne. “Where were we before Asa rudely interrupted us? Oh yes, your selfish daddy.” Edward moves closer until his boots are touching Étienne’s thigh. He’s way too close for my liking. Once again, he kneels. “Explain to me why your daddy would leave a kid who came from nothin’ to fucking rot.”

  Étienne winces and tries to keep his focus on Edward. “You’re not his son. Why would he give you anything?”

  “Because I had nothin’!” Edward snaps. He taps Étienne’s cheek with the barrel of his gun, and I suck in a sharp breath and tighten my hold on Étienne. “Open your eyes, Étienne. You’re gonna want to be awake to hear this.”

  Étienne’s eyes open into thin slits.

  Edward coldly smiles. “That’s better.”

  Still kneeling, he rests his elbows on his knees. If it weren’t for the gun dangling between his legs, you’d think he was having a casual conversation with a group of friends.

  “One night I was working late. Everyone was out of the office, and I was the only one who’d stayed to finish the books. Not Asa. Me. When I finished, I came across some paperwork. It was your will. Of course, I looked through it.” He tilts his head. “After that, I started taking money from your company that was due to be mine. I was doing what your father should have done. You know that, right?”

  Asa and I stare at Edward like you would a crazy person. Because that’s what he is. Crazy. He’s so out of touch with reality, he truly believes what he did was right. Honorable, eve
n.

  Then I freeze when I feel something cold tap my lower back. I don’t want to jump or even breathe wrong; I don’t want to pull Edward’s attention to me. With my free hand, I reach behind my back and blindly touch the ground, searching for the culprit. My hand curls around a thin barrel. I glance at Asa, trying to make eye contact to let him know I have his gun, but he solemnly looks at Edward, refusing to glance my way.

  Cautiously, I pull the gun behind me until it’s resting against my outer right thigh. Right around then, I realize that the pieces of my dream, the one I had so long ago, are coming together. The fragments are disjointed, but each moment is occurring.

  “When I saw your will that stated that upon your death you would split the company between Livingston, Asa, and me, I knew what I had to do.”

  “So you kill Étienne, and take what’s rightfully yours.”

  Edward keeps his eyes on Étienne. I’m not even sure if he knew I was the one who asked the question. He nods. “That was the plan. Then when I arrived at Belgrave, I had to change tactics.”

  “All of this was because of money? I’ve known you for years. You could’ve asked, and I would have given it to you,” Étienne says through his pain.

  “No, all of this was because of betrayal. Your daddy betrayed me. He was the only father figure I had.” He leans in, taking the gun with him. “You know how lucky you are? You have everything. Family, love. Most importantly, money.”

  Greed can do many things to people. Woven with jealousy, it can drive a sane person mad. At what point did Edward go crazy? When he was a child? Or maybe when he was a teenager and working so hard to earn money for him and his mother while he rubbed shoulders with the elite of Charleston?

  Who knows the whens and wheres. All that matters is the man standing in front of us is pointing a gun directly at Étienne and could snap at any given moment. He needs to be treated with kid gloves. We need to keep him talking. In some cases, hurt people want to hurt back. But sometimes they want to speak. They want to rage. They want to expel the pain that’s been building inside of them for so long. All they need is an audience.