Devilishly Damaged

by Abigail Cole

  After a quick change, going for a comfortable two-piece tracksuit in powdered blue, I sneak a peek around the net curtain to see the coast is clear before leaving. As I walk into the mansion, the detective emerges and hands the passing officer an evidence bag. He takes it and leaves before I can see what’s inside, my heart pounding that we missed something vital. Leading me to the kitchen island, we sit on the stools like the last time she interviewed me. But this time, I’ll be asking the questions.

  “So you found something, huh?” She nods, keeping her poker face in place as she removes her jacket to reveal a navy blouse that buttons up to a high frilled neckline. Her police badge glints from the loop in her black jeans. “Was it what you were looking for?” I dance around the topic, knowing she won’t outright tell me what was in the bag.

  “We weren’t sure what we might find but hopefully we will be able to make a break in the case soon.” She answers cryptically.

  “And what is this case? I wasn’t aware my father was being investigated.” Tucking a brown lock behind her ear, she seems to mull over her answer.

  “What do you know of Fredrick Walters?” Her counter question catches me off guard and my eyes brows crease. I’m certain I’ve never heard of that name before, shifting through college students and past household employees. A memory pulls at my mind but I can’t quite grasp it, a hazy image of my father’s mahogany office door and his deep voice mumbling inside.

  “Not that I can recall,” I shake my head, tucking that name away from later. Sighing, the detective seems slightly annoyed as she moves on.

  “We believe someone with a grudge is targeting your family in retaliation to a crime that happened in the 90’s. It was never proven, but your father was suspected of being involved in a drug deal gone wrong. The result of that evening was the death of an adolescent girl.” She looks away, sorrow gripping her features. “It was my first case, and I promised her mother I would figure out what happened.”

  “And you’re still trying? Surely there’s nothing left to be done decades later.” I now notice the slight wrinkles framing her eyes that would suggest her age, although she hides it very well with make-up. Everything about the detective is very well put together in fact, from the recent session of Botox around her mouth to the Prada label sticking out of her coat.

  “I had resigned myself to that too, until some new information came to light. I feel like we are closer than ever now.”

  “Well I hope you find the answers you need to clear my father’s name. He may be many things, but a drug dealing murder he is not.” I say with confidence. Criminals don’t adopt abused girls or fund charities for orphans.

  “So why is he on the run?” Her sharp eyes watch for my reaction, which I don’t give her.

  “He’s not running, he’s working. His stock exchange business takes him all over the world without much notice, this is common Nixon Hughes behaviour.”

  “Have you been able to contact him since the break-in?” At my lack of response, she smirks knowingly, causing me to start doubting myself. After receiving a text message, the detective thanks me for my cooperation and leaves, the navy car returning to pick her up and rolling smoothly through the iron gates.

  “What was all that about?” Garrett asks from the doorway behind me, a bottle of beer in his hand.

  “I have no idea, but I’m going to find out.” I say, tapping him on the shoulder as I pass. Walking to the office, my jaw drops at the state I find inside. Drawers pulled free from the sideboard line the floor, the cupboard doors left open and paperwork littering every surface of the room. Deciding to leave the mess, since there will be nothing of any value to me left in there anymore, I move into the next room.

  Opening the study door, I lift my laptop from the table and carry it to the upper level. Lounging back on Avery’s bean bed, I flip open the lid and press the power button as my mind spins with the detective’s words. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I tap the call button on my father’s name on the screen, balancing the device between my ear and shoulder as I key in the laptop’s password. Without ringing, the voicemail plays so I leave a quick message, asking my father to call me back because Avery is in danger. Hopefully that grips his attention.

  After checking my emails, finding a message from my tutor to acknowledge my final’s entry, I open the search engine and type Fredrick Walters into the text box. Masses of links pop up so I settle for the first one, which turns out to be a news article from only two months ago.

  Romford Rapist Released.

  Convicted child rapist Fredrick Walters was released from prison this afternoon, after serving only 6 years of his 11-year sentence. Freed early for good behaviour, the former foster parent is said to be given a new identity for a fresh start. Walters pled guilty to an array of offences following his 2014 arrest, which he did while using amphetamines and alcohol.

  On the night of 21st November 2014, police and an ambulance arrived at Walters’ home in Romford, East London in response to a call he himself made after being stabbed in the chest. The child in his care, who will remain unnamed for protective reasons, is said to have taken a kitchen knife and hid it under the pillow, awaiting Walters regular nightly visits.

  Conditions of his release include the prohibited consumption of alcohol, possession of illicit drugs and a lifetime ban from caring for young children or being within 2 metres of schools. The 39-year-old is also not allowed to have any contact with any of his victims under any circumstances.

  In court he was described as a ‘the worst kind of sexual predator’. Judge Patterson commented that Walters had ‘abused his position to care for the children in his home’ but also the ‘welfare system failed these children by not completing the proper inspections or routine check-ins.’

  Forcing myself to look away from the screen, I stare at the bookcases. Tears are stinging the backs of my eyes, a tingling sensation burning my tender nose as I work hard to control my breathing. The date lines up to the week before my parents returned with Avery and I suddenly wonder if I’ve avoided learning of her past for this exact reason. Guilt racks through me that I did everything in my power to make her feel like she didn’t belong here, the names I’ve called her circling around my head. Outcast. Reject. Charity case.

  Returning to the previous page, I continue to look through similar articles, trying to find a connection between this man and my father. The only link is Avery, but her adoption doesn’t explain why the detective believes he could be involved in a drug-related murder years before she was even born. Close to giving up, I click on the last link of the page when a photo pops up and halts the breath attempting to leave my lungs.

  Blue eyes filled with dread stare at me through the screen, her cheeks dirty and tattered yellow nightdress torn at the side. The camera’s flash highlights her freckled button nose and the glint of my mother’s large diamond ring on the hand holding the girl’s shoulder. But none of that is what fills me with a sense of horror. In this photo, the youthful face I recognise all too well is framed by straight chocolate brown hair that falls to her waist.

  Avery

  “Right, shower time. You stink.” I half-joke, striding into Huxley’s room with a towel wrapped around my body. I was going to shower by myself, but where’s the fun in that when this Adonis is lying merely feet away? He chuckles at the insult, shifting from the bed with much more ease as he begins to properly heal. Linking fingers with me, we move into our joined bathroom, where I leave him to lean against the counter as I turn on the spray and adjust the dial to a lukewarm temperature. Catching sight of his tattooed back in the mirror, I bite my lip and fist my hands at my sides, not that he seems to notice. A few times now, I’ve stroked my fingers across the angel’s white feathered wings while he has been sleeping.

  Dropping the towel onto the edge of the bath, I gesture for him to join me in the cubicle, leaving my panties and his boxers in place as a clear ‘do not cross’ line. Although, I’m not sure who that line has been dra
wn for since he clearly isn’t interested right now. Since my sex session with Garrett and Axel, my desire has been through the roof as if a promiscuous lioness inside of me has been awakened and is clawing to come out to play again. Careful to keep his dressing away from the water, I squeeze a healthy amount of his sea mineral shower gel into my palm and clean his body, starting with his washboard abs. Keeping his face stoic, I start to feel like a desperate slut until he picks up my vanilla and honey body wash.

  Copying my actions, Huxley works up a lather between my cleavage and spreads the suds over my breasts. My back arches as my eyes briefly flutter closed, lost to the tingling sensations building in my core. Massaging and rolling my nipples in his palms, I give in to my inhibitions and push my hand beneath his waistline. Telling myself I need to make sure he’s thoroughly clean, I pump my fisted hand up and down his hardening length while staring into his hooded brown eyes. Abruptly pulling my hand free, Huxley steps back out of my reach.

  “I’m sorry sweetheart. I just can’t,” he says, looking annoyed and I mentally slap myself. What the hell was I thinking trying to make a move on someone who just took a bullet for me? Quickly rinsing off, I forgo washing my hair and leave the shower cubicle. Hugging the towel to my front, I head back into my room to dress before he finishes in the shower. I try to tell myself that lapse in judgement in there wasn’t one sided, but the rejection stings nonetheless.

  Returning to the bathroom in my green hoodie and grey sweatpants, I pass Huxley a towel from the rack when he steps out the shower, barely covering his package in one hand now he’s shed his boxers onto the floor of the cubicle. Once it’s secured around his waist, I peel Huxley’s dressing off to see the wound beneath. A neat line of dissolvable stitches sits in the middle of raised pink flesh that is healing nicely. He tries to itch it as I reach for a new dressing, but I manage to notice and slap his hand away in time.

  Focusing on securing the fresh dressing in place with medical tape, his hand catches my chin and forces me to look up into his eyes. The troubled expression I find there makes me frown. I want nothing more than to draw the pain out of him so I can see his cheeky grin and relaxed attitude again, but I don’t know how.

  “I do want you sweetheart. I just need some time.” He breathes, lowering his head to push his lips onto my forehead lightly. His scent fills my nostrils as droplets from the ends of his hair drip onto my shoulders. He moves away, leaving me to stand there with a mixture of lust and self-directed anger clashing inside of me. I need to comfort him, not make him feel emasculated because he’s not in the mindset to follow through on my advances.

  Wanting to do something to lift his spirits, an idea fills my mind and makes me smile. Following him into the room, I wait for him to dress in a fresh tracksuit before offering him my hand. “Come on, I’m going to play a song for you.” His answering smile is everything to me in his moment. We walk together down the stairs, his strength almost back to normal. On the outside anyway. Axel and Dax shift on the sofa to face us as we sit side by side on the piano stool. I lift the lid, stroking my fingers over the keys while I think of the perfect song to gift Huxley with.

  Settling on ‘Only Us’ from Dear Evan Hansen, I start to play the intro before singing along, hoping he hears every word. Garrett appears from the kitchen, crossing his ankles as he leans against the archway. My fingers move to the tune I’ve played hundreds of times before as four pairs of eyes remain fixated on me. Finishing the first chorus, Wyatt rounds the corner with a crazed look in his eyes, reminding me of the version of him that originally arrived here almost three weeks ago. Striding straight towards me at a fast pace, I stop playing just before his fingers grab fistfuls of my hair.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” I shriek, his hands tugging my hair back and forth in all directions. I hear the guys yelling at him to stop but he continues to pull my hair apart in various sections.

  “Are you naturally blonde?” he demands. Confusion and panic pulls me in opposite directions as I frantically try to understand why he would unexpectedly ask me that.

  “Get off!” I shout. Wyatt pulls his hands free with a grumble. Turning, I see his emerald eyes are blazing with what seems like anger and my heart drops at the thought of our recent bonding reverting back to how it used to be.

  “No, my hair is actually brown. Mum took me to a salon in London a few days after she first found me. She said it would be the best way to leave my past behind, if I didn’t resemble that person anymore, so I’ve kept up with dying it ever since. Why?” A shudder passes through Wyatt as he stands rooted to the spot, staring at me for the longest time. Growing nervous, I glance to Huxley who also seems to looking at me as if I’ve grown a second head. Standing, I circle all of their gazes, feeling like I’m on display at a gallery. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “We need to talk. Everyone come to the pool house.” Wyatt says from behind me before walking towards the open patio doors. The guys all follow him before I do, hanging back hesitantly and dragging my feet. A sense of foreboding tells me I’m going to emerge from the pool house with my world tilted on its axis, and I’m not prepared for it.

  Wyatt is sitting on the edge of his glass coffee table and gestures for me to sit in the empty space on the sofa in front of him. Garrett has placed himself on the floor, while Dax and Axel sit on one side of the sofa with Huxley on the other. Lowering myself into the gap between them, I fold my legs beneath me and fiddle with the hem of my olive-green hoodie.

  “Avery, I need you to tell me everything you can about your previous life.” Wyatt says sternly, his jaw clenched. My stomach drops and my position between these guys suddenly feels more like a cage.

  “I can’t talk about it, Wyatt. Not even with Elena.” I shake my head, unwelcome visions already finding their way into the backs of my eyes. These past few days, I’ve felt comfortable – happy even, surrounded by this lot. My nightmares haven’t found me once while sleeping in Huxley’s arms. The attention I’ve received from each of them, Wyatt included, has eased something within me. But now, everything dark and ugly has come rushing back to me at once.

  Reaching forward, Wyatt places his hand gently on my knee but I can’t help my flinch. The corners of my vision are blurring into the dark, cold alley in London, the mix of light rain and my tears making everything fuzzy as headlights shine onto me brightly.

  “Avery, father might be in trouble and there’s some connection here we aren’t seeing. Please will you tell me what you can remember?” His soft voice finds me in my flashback, his green eyes anchoring me back to the present. Axel reaches around me and pulls me into his lap, Garrett taking the space I’ve vacated.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe here.” He whispers, nuzzling his shaved head into my hair. A hand I presume is Dax’s rubs my back but I find I don’t mind anymore, needing all the comfort I can get if I’m going to relive that night out loud. Garrett pulls my legs into his lap, stroking them with his thumbs.

  “It was a normal night,” I say vaguely, knowing their version of normal will differ hugely from mine. “The house was always damp and cold, since it was hidden between tall buildings so sunshine never shone through the windows. Fredrick would drink more than usual on a weekend and his drug dealer had been over during that day so I knew it would be a bad night. I’d overheard him talking about how the government was going to give him a huge amount of money to take in another girl, and something in me snapped. I might have been worthless, but I couldn’t let him hurt anyone else.”

  Visions assault me before I am able to put a barrier up to block them out. I withdraw my feet from Garrett and curl further into Axel’s embrace, burying my head in his neck. Tears spill from my eyes and goose bumps prickle along my skin despite the humidity in the room.

  “You can skip forward. How did my parents find you?” Wyatt asks, a tick beating in his jaw as all sense of familiarity with me has vanished. He’s obviously desperate to find answers for something but I’m not sure I have them for hi
m.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, it was a complete accident. I ran out of the house and I threw myself in front of the first oncoming car I saw. End of story.” Axel’s arms tighten around me protectively while various other hands find a patch of my numb body to squeeze. Garrett shifts to lean his head onto my lap, trapping me in place.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dax murmurs into my ear from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder and afro tickling my cheek. Glancing around, Huxley’s pained expression find me, his chocolate coloured eyes hidden beneath a glazed layer. For the first time, I don’t feel entirely alone. I’ve had mum and Meg, even Nixon, to show me what love feels like but these boys know what it means to be damaged. They understand my flaws and are consoling me anyway, seeing something within I can’t see for myself.

  “What about your birth mother? Do you remember anything about her?” Wyatt breaks the silence, so I twist to face him. His hair is a mess and he’s shed his hoodie to reveal a tight vest clinging onto this chest. I shake my head, having no words. I haven’t ever spared her much thought, knowing I’ll never find the answers I seek so refuse to go through the pain of trying.

  Wyatt hangs his head in his hands, clawing his fingers through his brown hair as he seems torn between emotions. “I hope you are able to forgive me for the way I treated you one day, Avery. I wanted to keep my parents to myself and remain the family we were before you came along.” Pulling a crumpled square of paper from his sweatpants pocket, he hands it to me with guilt shining in his eyes. “But now I think you might have been a part of this family all along.”

  I stare at the faded ultrasound but make no move to take it, studying the outline of two heads and bodies crammed together into the image with bated breath. The name lining the top reads ‘Catherine Hughes’ but I either can’t understand or am scared to believe what Wyatt is trying to insinuate. “What is it?” I ask stupidly.