by Loretta Lost
“No way,” I say with a little gasp. “I have a job. I can’t be the CEO of Snowfire. I’m a software engineer. Miranda, you need to take over.”
“I’m a biologist, sweetie. Cole wanted you.”
I put my head in my hands. I feel like my forehead is creased so tightly that I am creating permanent lines there, and changing the very structure of my anatomy.
Mr. Bishop clears his throat again. “There’s also the very sensitive matter of his… er, semen sample.”
I rip my hands away from my face and look at the lawyer as my cheeks flush a deeper red than my name. “Oh, dear god! What does his will stipulate I do with that?”
“Nothing,” Mr. Bishop says, “but it belongs to you, and Annabelle Nelson is requesting that you give it to her.”
I blink slowly. It suddenly occurs to me that I had a lot to drink, and not very much to eat. That must be the reason that the room is spinning. “I need to sit down,” I tell Zachary, and he reaches for a stool, and helps me collapse on it. Without his help, I might have toppled over—my backpack is heavy and it feels impossible to find my balance. “Why are we here?” I ask them again. “Why are we here talking about this in a morgue?”
It might be my imagination, but I feel like I see the three of them exchange secretive looks. They were discussing something important before I got here, and they don’t trust me. Why would they? I’m an outsider. I’ve been gone for years.
“Scarlett, honey… it’s been a difficult day,” Miranda says softly, moving to my side. She combs her hand over my hair in a maternal fashion, the way she might have done to her daughter, when she was young. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow, or sometime soon, I’m going to need to ask you to help tighten up our security systems a little. And maybe you could work with Detective Rodriguez a little, and tell him about… you know.”
I don’t know. My mind draws a fuzzy blank.
Miranda is still speaking, and I try to follow what she’s saying. “Detective, Scarlett is a master cryptanalyst, and technological expert. Combined with her personal knowledge of the victim, she could probably help you find out who would want to hurt Cole quite quickly, and make your job a lot easier.”
“I will keep that in mind, Mrs. Walters. I know this is difficult, and I don’t want to be disrespectful to your mourning by asking too much of you all while you’re still coping with this loss. But we do need to move quickly to find the killer, in case he or she is not finished.”
Miranda sighs. “Our primary goal is to make sure that all of us are safe. Especially you, Scarlett. We will need to discuss where you’re staying tonight, because Cole’s house might not be safe.”
“I can check into a hotel,” I tell her.
“That’s great. Maybe have your bodyguard get an adjoining room,” Miranda suggests. “Will you make it to the funeral, honey, to say a few words?”
I suddenly remember, and I hesitate. “I don’t know, Miranda. I don’t like crowds very much, or public speaking. Especially with all these cameras...”
“Gentlemen,” Miranda says to the three other men in the room. “I would appreciate if you all gave us some space and let us speak in private.”
Zack seems reluctant, but the men all nod and filter out of the room.
“Honey,” Miranda says finally. “I think you should tell the detective about Benjamin.”
I stiffen. “What is that going to accomplish? They are going to bring him in for questioning and ask if he raped a nine-year-old girl. He’ll know that I’m alive, if he doesn’t already. He’ll lie, and cover it up, and get away with it, like he always did before.”
“Cole worked with Benjamin on the new business towers downtown,” Miranda says softly. “I find it an odd coincidence that Cole was killed shortly after the ribbon-cutting ceremony.”
“Here?” I say in surprise. “But I thought his business was focused in New York.”
“Not anymore, dear. They’ve expanded—quite significantly.” Miranda fishes into her purse for an item, and pulls out an old keychain. “You will need the keys to Cole’s house, in case you want to stay there at some point. I know you love that house.” She pauses. “Your car is still sitting there, in the garage. He had it serviced and maintained regularly. He knew you loved that little car, and he always thought you were coming back. I wish… you had come back a little sooner.” Miranda lifts a tissue to the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, dear. Look at me, making this all worse.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You’re right.”
Miranda fumbles in her pockets to hand me a business card. “Get some rest, sweetie. Send me a text, and I’ll tell you the details of the funeral tomorrow.”
“Alright,” I say quietly, clutching the keys in the palm of my hand. She doesn’t know that I still have my old keys, nestled neatly on my keychain in my purse, just in case I ever got over my issues and decided to come home and surprise Cole.
It was going to be a happy day. He would be sleeping, and I would sneak into his bedroom and tackle him, and he would freak out and wake up in a panic, and start defending himself. We would wrestle for a few seconds until he realized it was only me, and then we would laugh. We would laugh so hard, and he would hug me and tousle my hair like when I was a child.
Then he would kiss me. He would kiss me so hard, and angrily, to punish me for leaving. Then he would push my down on the bed and tear off my clothing.
Okay, he probably wouldn’t do that. But it’s called a fantasy, people.
I look around at the morgue, and all the stark metal beds, some of them covered in sheets. The giant freezer contains dozens of pull-out drawers of bodies, stacked closer than beds in the youth hostels where Cole and I used to stay—but with much more privacy. I am lucky that Cole is no longer in this morgue, because I would want to climb into that freezer with him and cuddle his corpse, and talk to him for hours like a madwoman until I also inevitably froze to death.
That might make me feel better about all this.
Instead, I still feel empty.
This isn’t exactly the homecoming I imagined.
Scarlett fell asleep reading a textbook again.
I walk into the library barefoot, my feet soundless against the carpet laid out over the hardwood floor. This library is the best part of the Browns’ home, and surely the reason that we were placed here at all. There are hundreds of books, and a magnificent stone fireplace with a mantle. Their home looks like a place where decent people live, so whenever the foster agency comes to check it out, they always pass the inspections with flying colors.
Mrs. Brown is an old fashioned housewife. She does nothing but clean all day, and seems obsessed with making the house spotless. This goes a long way to maintain the illusion of decency. People judge quickly, and it is commonplace to assume that a well-put together home is a sign of comfort, happiness, and stability. This isn’t always true. Sometimes, it’s a sign of OCD and placing more value on material possessions and superficial appearances than the actual well-being of the other people in the home.
It takes a lot of time to clean an entire house to spotlessness. Every single day. Mrs. Brown would much rather do this than have a conversation with anyone, smile, or prepare a decent meal. It is possible she picked up the habit early in their marriage, as a way of avoiding Mr. Brown and his temper. The Browns have two children of their own, a son and a daughter, but both have long since moved out of the home.
I would move out of this home, too, at my earliest opportunity, if I were their children.
They probably started fostering a bit because of empty nest syndrome. I hear it’s really difficult on older adults, when their kids leave the home. It can get very lonely, not having anyone around to abuse and berate all day.
Trying to ignore my surroundings, and my distaste for this house, I look down at the package I’m holding proudly. A grin settles on my face as I move closer to the sofa where Scarlett is sleeping, and crouch down to my knees. Her black glas
ses are sitting askew on her nose. I am excited to surprise her with my gift, but she looks so adorable that I can’t resist the urge to bother her.
Isn’t that what big brothers are supposed to do?
Placing my rectangular cardboard box down on the carpet beside me, I slide it slightly under the couch to keep it out of sight. I gaze at her innocent form mischievously, and try to keep from laughing out loud. Scarlett’s shirt is lifted a little, exposing her bellybutton. Before I can stop myself, I find myself leaning forward and putting my lips against her stomach.
I blow a very loud raspberry.
Scarlett shrieks and flails as she awakens abruptly, shoving my head away and clutching her stomach defensively. Her book goes crashing to the floor, and I erupt into laugher. She reaches out to smack me, but I dodge her blows and roll backwards on the carpet, laughing my ass off.
“Cole!” she exclaims, between deep, shuddering breaths. “Ugh, gross! What have you done to me? I’m going to kill you.”
I don’t expect her to leap off the sofa and tackle me, putting me in a surprisingly strong headlock for a girl of her small size. This only makes me laugh harder, as I wrestle with her for several seconds until I have her pinned on the carpet beneath me.
“You need to be more aware of your surroundings when you’re sleeping,” I advise her, still grinning. “You never know what could happen. Creeps could sneak up on you and blow raspberries on your stomach.”
She makes a face of disgust. “I hate you! You’re the worst.”
“I’m just being a good big brother,” I tell her teasingly, repeating a line she often says to me. “Besides! I am pretty sure I have a present that will make you forget all about this raspberry incident, and make you want to call a truce.” Reaching out to grasp the cardboard box, I slide it over until it rests beside her head.
She turns to glance over at it, and her eyes grow wide. “Cole... what did you do?”
I watch the expressions on her face carefully as she scrambles out from underneath me to sit up and grab the cardboard box. Her eyes grow serious when she studies the writing on the sides. “Oh my god. This is the one I wanted. How the hell did you afford this?”
With a shrug, I smile. “Told you I’d pick up some extra landscaping jobs. Turns out I really have a knack for designing gardens, and people are willing to pay a lot for it.”
Scarlett looks at me suspiciously. “Cole. I know you’re amazing, but this laptop costs over a thousand dollars, and you didn’t have lunch money a week ago. You have also spent several days studying and not working at all. How did you get this computer? Did you steal it?”
I fidget a little under her harsh gaze. “Gee, Scar. I thought you’d be happy.”
She glares at me. “I just want to know the truth. Be honest with me.”
“Okay. Promise you won’t hate me?”
“Never,” she says quietly.
“I… well. I did a little bit more than landscaping.”
“Cole. You’re scaring me.”
“A housewife. At one of the houses where...”
“Oh my god!” she exclaims.
“It was nothing,” I tell her quickly. “We didn’t have sex… I just...”
“No! No, no, spare me the details.”
“She said she liked the way I trimmed her bushes,” I explain, blushing red hot. “And that if I needed some extra money, she would love to have me come inside and work on another bush...”
“Ewww!” Scarlett says, making a face. “Dammit, Cole. You expect me to use a laptop that you prostituted yourself to get for me?”
“I… I understand if you don’t want to.”
She moves forward to throw her arms around my neck and kiss me on the lips. I am taken aback by her enthusiasm, and too stunned to return the kiss. My lips soften for a millisecond, just before she pulls away.
“I love you,” she says, when she picks up the laptop box, hugging it tightly against her chest. “Please don’t make yourself uncomfortable like this again on my account, but this means the world to me.”
Frozen in shock, I try to recall my command of a human language. “Scar, that wasn’t very sisterly of you.”
“I was just trying to help. Give you a little something to help forget whatever you did with those lips before.” Her smile is wicked.
“Seriously? You’re not upset?”
“You didn’t hurt anyone. You didn’t sell drugs or mug some old woman in an alley. You didn’t shoplift like an idiot and risk a criminal record. You just gave up a little bit of your dignity, for me. I think that makes you a freaking hero. Thank you, Cole.” She touches my knee and smiles. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and find an AOL disc with a free trial so that I can use the internet.”
“Okay,” I tell her happily, grateful that she didn’t judge my actions. When she’s about to leave the room, the grin returns to my face, and I call out: “Hey, Scar?”
“Yeah?”
“You should see the way I trim bushes. I’m getting really good at it.”
“Ewwwww!” she exclaims, before running away. But not before I saw the deep red blush in her cheeks, redder than her name.
How did we ever survive without a computer in the house?
Scarlett has been sharing her laptop with me, and I feel like it was the best purchase I ever made. For one thing, it makes her happy. But I have also begun to really look forward to the few hours that I get to use it when she’s sleeping, or otherwise busy. Like right now.
I have retreated to my room to surf the internet tonight so that I don’t bother Scarlett, but I always leave my bedroom door open so that I can keep an eye on her. Of course, my use of the computer is pathetic and childish compared to hers. I haven’t been doing anything really important. My main activity has been obsessively checking the status of my college applications, but I have also done a bit of reading about how to improve my architectural drawings. Scarlett’s time with the laptop always takes priority, because in her hands, it becomes a magical machine that can cast spells and grant wishes.
I’m not even kidding.
Now that I’ve been staying in her room, I get a chance to peek at her sometimes when she uses the internet. I often find myself staring with a slack jaw. The way her fingers fly across the keyboard is mesmerizing, and she bites her lip with such concentration as she works, reminiscent of an Olympic athlete training for a competition. I can understand why Scarlett was so depressed after Mr. Brown smashed her laptop.
Taking away her technology is the equivalent of breaking a wizard’s wand. The power doesn’t come from the wand—it comes from the wizard. But the wand is the key to releasing that pent up energy, and without it, a really powerful wizard might go insane. Having a gift, and having unlimited potential to use that gift, is a great burden to bear. Being banned from using that gift must feel like only being half-alive.
At least, this is what I imagine it feels like. I don’t totally understand Scarlett, but I’m trying to.
I would never want to do that to her—take away the thing she loves most. She doesn’t love very much in this world, and her hacking skills are all she has. It seems mostly harmless, and extremely useful. In fact, I often find myself wanting to ask her to find some information for me, or even to change some information for me. It’s been difficult to resist.
Watching her has taught me a lot, and inspired by her investigation skills, I am trying some investigating of my own. But the only thing in my life worth investigating is her. I feel a little nervous and guilty about what I’m looking up, and worried she’ll be able to find out even if I clear the browsing history, but I can’t resist. As I spend more and more time with Scarlett, my curiosity builds, but I don’t want to ask her certain questions outright and remind her of events and people she would rather forget.
It takes me a while to find a politician named “Benjamin” who previously adopted an orphan. I keep finding articles about orphans named Benjamin instead, or politicians working with orp
hanages. Scarlett probably could have found this way faster—not that she would have needed to, since she lived it. I just want to see his face. I want to see the face of the person who hurt her. My searches are amateurish, and I open a dozen tabs before I find one that strikes me as odd.
It’s a recent article, published in the New York Times on the day that I found Scarlett huddled under the bleachers. Her birthday. I wonder if she saw this? It would explain her depression that day.
I grit my teeth as I look over this article, and a feeling in my gut tells me that this is the guy. Mayor Benjamin Powell made headlines for his charitable work with children, and there are pictures of the man surrounded by dozens of smiling kids. My face contorts in anger as I scan the article.
He sounds like a nice guy. At least, he does an excellent job of appearing that way. The article speaks about how he adopted a young girl who went missing, and how he has never gotten over that loss. It says that the mayor was throwing an event to provide at-risk youth with access to computers and free educational programs to promote computer literacy. He was doing it in honor of his lost daughter, and sponsoring a scholarship to the computer engineering program at Columbia University.
“The Serena Powell award,” I read out loud. There is a photograph in the paper: a headshot from a school picture. I peer a little closer and I am surprised to see that the girl has lighter hair, but the same facial structure as Scarlett. Is her natural hair color not really black? I should have known. I have never seen hair that black, and her skin is so pale that it seems unlikely…
“Are you having fun?” asks an annoyed voice from behind me.
I jump a little in my chair, and shut the laptop guiltily. “Uh… hi, Scar.”
She makes angry eye contact with me, but then sighs. “I think he might know that I’m alive,” she says, moving over to open the laptop back to the article. She stares at it for a long moment, crossing her arms over her chest. “He threw me a birthday party.”