by Traci Finlay
That monster was my father.
I fall forward. Catch myself on my hands.
Ian created Burken to get me away from our dad.
“Charlotte! Are you all right?” Nikka.
He knew the only way to get me away from him would be to get me out of the house for as long as possible. That’s why the game kept getting longer and longer, the older I got.
“Charlotte, get up.” Jack’s trying to pick me up; I’m dead weight.
“Hey, can you hear me?” Nikka’s voice calls, returning void.
And the night Dad killed Chrissy … he must’ve thought it was me lying in the hay like Ian and I did all the time. He probably approached her sleeping form, unable to distinguish her features. And Chrissy, half asleep, probably thought it was Ian. And when she was finally awake … and the shock when she realized it was Tim … and Tim’s humiliation when he realized it was Chrissy…
I jerk away from Jack and vomit on the grass. I plead for this sick, twisted thread of events to stop; I can’t take any more. But I reopened the vault. It was I who had decided that The Night That Never Happened, Happened After All.
Ian never wanted me to know our father was a pedophile. Now I understand why he never wanted me dating, why he was so adamant against Trevor. He’s paranoid that every guy is going to take advantage of me. Just like Tim did with Chrissy … in the barn … where Trevor and I were dancing…
I lurch forward, heaving another round of vomit as Nikka holds my hair and rubs my back. “Is it true? Did he confess?” she asks.
I shake my head and spit on the ground. “No. It wasn’t him.” I stand and turn to Jack. “I need to find Ian.”
Jack hands me a bottle of water. “Listen. You … you’re obviously in no state to think rationally. We need to get you somewhere and get you hydrated, and you need some rest. Charlotte?”
I’m blinking erratically. Staring off. Swaying.
“She’s going into shock, I think,” Nikka comments, and wraps my arm around her shoulder, supporting me as they move me to the car.
I wake up on my back, my feet elevated on a pile of pillows.
“Good morning,” Nikka chirps, sprawled on an identical bed and flipping through the TV stations.
I sit up on my elbows and kick the pillow pile to the floor, confused by the hotel room enveloping me. “Morning? How long did I sleep?”
“I guess morning was the wrong word, considering it’s four in the afternoon. But you had a good nap.” Nikka stands and moseys over to my bed, plopping on the edge. “Jack went to get us dinner. How are you feeling?” She brushes a strand of hair out of my face.
“I’m okay. I’m really hungry.”
Nikka jogs to the minifridge for a bottle of green tea, and I’m impressed with how nice this room is. “Here. Drink this for now.” She tosses it to me and returns to my bedside. “You should be starving, considering you threw up everything you’ve ever eaten.”
I feel Nikka’s mismatched eyes on me as I take a long swig, and I glance up to see her chewing her lower lip like a teething ring. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m still processing all this. You and your brother. It just sucks.” She chuckles. “Are we the only people in the world with oppressive brothers?”
Thankfully, I’ve swallowed the tea or my laughter would’ve made me spit it all over the bed and Nikka. “They are oppressive, aren’t they?”
Nikka groans.
I shake my head. “Ian and Jack are nothing alike. Ian’s way worse than Jack. Jack’s a dick sometimes, but nothing like Ian.”
Nikka scrunches her little face. “Jack crucifies me every chance he gets because he can’t handle my lifestyle and the decisions I make.”
“Uh, Nikka? If I had sex with guys for money, Ian would literally crucify me. I’m talking crosses, cat-o’-nine-tails … like straight up, first century, Roman crucifixion. In fact, Ian would do that to me if I had sex at all. You weren’t that far off, calling me a prude when we first met. I really am a virgin. You heard about Trevor. Ian’s way too overprotective. I hated it before, but it makes sense now, knowing what my father was…” I shudder. I can’t think about that. It’s still too fresh and weird.
“Does Ian insult you like Jack does?”
I smile. “No, Jack certainly has a way with words. Ian’s generally silly and loving. Well, unless he’s calling me lazy. Or trying to kill me. God! I still can’t believe all this.”
Nikka looks at me sympathetically. “So pick your poison—an affectionate murderer or a verbally abusive philanthropist? Jeez, Jack screams at me and then goes to the orphanages to give out food and clothes, all in the same day. What the hell, Charlotte? Is it us?”
Nikka’s laughing, but I know her question is something that truly troubles her. “I think we have brothers that don’t know how to love properly. They have good intentions—again, I speak for the pre-axe-swinging Ian—but they don’t know how to execute them. Ian, in all of his assholery, was always just trying to make me a better person. And that’s what Jack wants for you, too.”
Nikka rolls her eyes. “I guess that’s what happens when brothers have to raise little sisters when they’re still children themselves? If you think about it, that’s a lot of stress for them. Maybe Ian’s finally snapping from it all.”
I quit listening; I’m stuck back at the part about Jack raising her. I realize I know nothing about Jack and Nikka, and aren’t their dynamics a little fucked up, too? What drove Nikka to drugs and prostitution? What happened to Jack that made him so angry and bitter? They’re polar opposites, they borderline hate each other, yet they cling to each other like lifelines. And I’ve been so wrapped up in myself and my troubles that I haven’t even considered Nikka’s. I suck. I’m beginning to see why Ian wants me dead. “Hey, Nikka?”
She answers, but is interrupted by the door opening and Jack entering with bags of Chinese food. The smell of deep-fried chicken batter fills my nose, and my stomach gurgles. Jack looks at me and winks. “Hey, Pukeface. Hungry?”
I blush as Nikka smacks him on the stomach. “Jack, you’re the worst person in the world. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
Jack laughs maliciously and rips open a box of rice. I scoot to the edge of the bed to stand, but Nikka shakes her head. “No, no, no. Stay there. We don’t need you passing out again.”
“I’m okay, Nikka. I can stand up.” But I remain on the bed because vertigo. Whoa.
“Forget it. Here.” Jack sets a paper plate of sweet and sour chicken in my lap. I shovel food in my mouth and look around the room again. “This is a nice hotel. Why are we here? This must cost a fortune. I don’t want to put you guys out any more than I already have.”
Jack sits in a chair across from me and snickers. “Don’t worry, we know someone who works in upper management here. Let’s just say he owes us a favor.”
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Birch Run.” And he licks a drop of sweet and sour sauce off his finger. “Anything from your brother?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a phone, remember?”
Jack tosses his to me, and I stare at it before bypassing the phone icon and navigating to Instagram. I try logging in, but it says my username is invalid. I scrunch my eyebrows and try again, then Facebook, Snapchat, and Twitter. All with the same results.“I think Ian disabled all my social media accounts.”
Nikka grabs her phone. “Maybe he just changed your passwords. I’ll do a search for you. How do you spell your last name?”
I tell her, and after a moment, she shakes her head. “Nothing. Let me try Instagram.”
“Don’t worry about it, Nikka. I’m sure he thoroughly erased all of them. I don’t even care. I’m enjoying not having a cell phone. It’s better that I’m off the grid. Jack, you should disable any tracking devices on your phone, now that he has your number.”
“I already did,” he says bitterly.
“What are you going to do?” Nikka asks.
I drop my fork on my pl
ate and look to both of them. “I know you guys think I’m crazy, but I still want to find him.”
“Why are you so dead set on finding him? Why don’t you just step on a landmine or something?” Jack sneers.
I squeeze my fork. “He has to know that I understand. How he protected me from our dad. This changes everything. I owe him that much.”
“Do you?” he says. “The guy’s trying to kill you. You can send him a thank-you card for everything else.”
“Just give it some time,” Nikka says, glaring at Jack. “You might change your mind. Or you might find out something else.”
“I don’t know. Nikka, you made a good point. Maybe Ian’s finally snapped from all the pressure put on him at such a young age. He never got to mourn the loss of his parents or girlfriend and was thrust into parenthood without any other options. Maybe I haven’t been appreciative enough, like I haven’t been there for him like he’s been there for me.”
They both stare at me, trying to register my logic, however flawed. Finally, Jack turns to Nikka and says, “Folie à deux.” Nikka nods and replies, “Oui.”
I blink at them both. “I—I’m sorry, French?”
Nikka smiles at me—it’s a strange smile I’ve never seen, and it spooks me. “A madness shared by two.”
We’re standing outside the hotel next to an opulent, sticky-smelling fountain. Nikka’s leaving back to Bay City, and I’m stuck here with Jack. I hug her goodbye—probably a little too hard, because she gulps and says, “Jack will take good care of you. One day at a time, okay? Hopefully you’ll be back in Bay City with me soon.”
I release her and latch onto her hand. “Why can’t you stay with me? Jack’s mean.”
Nikka smiles as Jack swipes at my ponytail. “I have to get back to work. And someone needs to cover at Oliver’s while Jack’s gone. And yes, Jack is mean, but he also has a gun and a car. Those three make a pretty lethal combination.”
A jaundiced yellow taxi swoops beneath the overhang. “You have your keys and your phone?” Jack asks her, pulling her into a hug.
“I have everything.”
“Okay. Remember what I told you.” He taps his finger on her forehead.
She smirks. “You forget what I do to men who threaten me and my friends. Take your mace and shove it.” She winks at me and hops in the cab. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t even sweat it,” she calls as Jack shuts the door, and the cab drives off.
I turn to Jack. “You’re not worried, are you?”
Jack shakes his head. “Nah. She’s survived worse.”
I shiver and look away. “So. Birch Run, huh? Never heard of this place.”
Jack juts his jaw, watching the cab disappear. “It’s south of Saginaw. Not much here, except some outlet malls.” He looks back at me, and there’s a twinkle in his eye. “There’s something nearby I want to show you.”
“What?” I ask, feeling unwelcomingly whimsical.
“It’s a surprise. But first, we need to make arrangements for tonight. The surprise isn’t until tomorrow.”
I hesitate. “Jack, I’m not on vacation. I need to talk to Ian.”
That twinkle in his eye quickly morphs into a spark. “Will you shut up about Ian? Dammit, Charlotte! You have a one-track mind, and it’s this psycho brother of yours! You don’t even care that he’s trying to kill you, do you? You don’t even know why he’s trying to kill you. Can we crack that case first before you frolic up and bestow him with glory and honor because of some theory you concocted about your dad that may or may not be true?”
Wow. His temper tantrums extend no warning. They’re like earthquakes. At least Hurricane Ian gives ample warnings, sometimes even hinting at a specific category.
He sighs and drops his shoulders like he does when he explodes and says things he doesn’t mean to say. “I’m just saying you need time—maybe a couple days—to absorb this new information and to avoid making rash decisions and doing something that could get you killed.”
I grin. “Yeah, that’s not what you said, though.”
He places a finger on my lips. “Quiet. No smartass comments. You need to trust me. I’m not leaving my home and skipping all these days of work for my own benefit. I’m doing what I can to keep you alive, and you’re going to have to do the same. Now let’s go.” He removes his finger from my mouth and begins sauntering to his car.
I scuff my feet along behind him—not because I condone the way he just took control of me, but because I’m left with no alternative. Where the hell am I going to go? I’m literally at the mercy of my employer, who bosses me around even outside the workplace.
I watch him as he drives with one hand on the wheel and one tapping on the shifter. He’s the most pragmatic person I’ve ever met, and despite constantly feeling like he’s barely tolerating me, I think I like that about him. I appreciate his reactions to my horror stories; that my brother’s trying to kill me receives as much pity as if I said I burned a batch of cookies, and that my dad’s in prison for killing my best friend might as well be that I got a speeding ticket in a construction zone. Jack Swaring is no stranger to horrific situations, and I’m reminded that I know nothing of these two.
He catches me looking at him. “What?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s the deal with you and Nikka?”
He thins his lips and pulls into a driveway, stopping near the road. “Come on,” he calls, already out of the car.
I trip out of the passenger’s seat and jog to catch up with him, observing a white farmhouse with a green roof and matching shutters. “Where are we?”
He stops halfway up the front yard, looks at the house, then turns, heading for a cornfield.
“Where are we?” I repeat because I’d truly like to know why I’m trudging through knee-high cornstalks and batting mosquitoes out of my face.
“I used to live here,” he calls, and I see that he’s heading for a single tree in the middle of the cornfield, ivy climbing up and down its long, thick trunk and patches of leaves scattering throughout its gnarled branches. It looks hauntingly chimerical, like something out of a creepy fairy tale.
Jack tucks himself underneath its plaited limbs and motions for me to join him. I sit in the cold, mossy grass and look around at the plush, green countryside. I lie on my back and gaze up at the contrasting purple sky, the orange sunset swirling with the brilliant cerulean atmosphere.
“This is beautiful,” I whisper.
“I know.” Jack lies down next to me.
I snicker. “I love how it’s after nine o’clock and the sun’s just now setting.”
“Gotta love Michigan summers,” Jack comments from somewhere far away. I glance at him. “What are you thinking about?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Just reminiscing.”
I sit up and look down at him. “I asked you a question in the car.”
“Why do you want to know? What did Nikka say?”
“She mentioned once that you raised her. Neither of you have spoken of any friends or family members. You have zero reaction to the horror that is currently my life, which tells me you’ve gone through some horrors yourself. Tell me, Jack. Tell me your story.”
Jack turns his eyes from me to the enchanted branches above. “We lived here with our mom when we were little. She died when I was four, and Nikka was only one. I still remember the inside of that house like I’d lived there my whole life. There’s a winding staircase, and a sump hole in the basement. My mom used to tell me a monster lived in the sump hole to keep me away from it. She was scared I’d fall in.”
He smiles at me, and it’s such a sad smile. But his face radiates with this small and rare gesture, and Jack’s face smiling is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
“How did she die?” I whisper.
He looks back at the house. “She was struck by lightning, chasing our puppy who ran outside during a thunderstorm.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He nods. “Me, too. Aft
er that, we were passed around from aunts, to cousins, to friends of aunts and cousins, while they tried locating our dad. The thing about our dad, I mean, he’d support us financially. But when it came to raising us, he wanted nothing to do with it. He tried a few times. He’d take us for a couple years until he was getting married, or his new wife would have a baby. Then he’d ship us off to foster families. But he’d visit us every birthday and Christmas, bring us toys, and leave us with a wad of conscience cash.”
“Conscience cash?”
“Money he’d give us to make himself feel better about how hard we’d cry when he’d leave. He has money, you know. The person I told you who owned the hotel? Who owes us a favor? It’s him. Oh, and his first name? Is Oliver.”
“Your dad owns Oliver’s Stone Oven Pizza? And the hotel we’re staying at?”
Jack nods. “That’s how I ended up as manager back when I was twenty-three. Sometimes conscience cash doesn’t fully justify his conscience. Nepotism might, though.”
“But if he remarried and had other kids, why couldn’t he raise you guys?”
“He never cared about us, Charlotte. He never cared about my mom. He had two kids with her and left. Would’ve never seen us again if she hadn’t died. He loved his work, his money, and he loved his wife and the children she gave him. The problem for us was that he loved her more than us, and she hated us. So whenever she said we had to go, he’d let us go.”
“Wow, Jack. Who’d you live with the rest of the time?”
“Foster homes. We went all over the place. All the time. We never did find a family to settle down into.”
“Why not? You seem like you were good kids.”
He laughs. “We weren’t the bad ones, it was the families they put us into.”
I wince. “I’m sorry.”
He gives me a disapproving look. “Stop throwing the sympathy card around or I’ll stop.”
I put on my best poker face.
“The longest we ever stayed at a foster home was two years. Everyone else kept us for about six months to a year, and most of the time, tormented us until Child Protective Services intervened. Then the few times our dad took us for a while,” he says passively, and I force myself not to look appalled. “Look over there.” He nods across the street—about an eighth of a mile down the road—to a two-story blue house with a big barn in the backyard. “That’s where we lived the longest. I was thirteen when we first arrived, and we stayed for twenty-two months.”