Stepping inside the house, Kip gaped at the old man. “I…uh, no. How did I get there?”
“You’re asking me?” Bradford shrugged his shoulders. “I’m the clean-up guy. Maybe after you drink some water and eat a bit, you’ll remember.”
Clamping a hand over his mouth, Kip raced to the front bathroom, barely making it to the commode before puking. Once finished, he leaned against the cool, porcelain tub while his head spun.
Why in the world did I go—on foot—to Samantha’s? Holy shit! What did I say to her? Did I tell her who I really am? Think, fool! Is that why she called Sheriff Wilson? Oh, God. If I did spill the beans, Kathy’s gonna kill me. Must stop drinking. Kathy’s right—it’ll be the death of me yet.
The sounds of pans clanking filtered through the bathroom door. Struggling to get to his feet, Kip reached the sink. After brushing his teeth and splashing water over his face, he glanced in the mirror.
He looked like hammered shit. His eyes were so red they could glow in the dark. The skin around them was swollen and saggy, his hair sticking up in every direction. Dirt and what he assumed was dried vomit covered the front of his jacket.
Pulling the phone from his pocket, he turned it on. There were no new videos saved in the app, which made zero sense. Why hadn’t it recorded their conversations?
After a few clicks, he realized the upload function was turned off. He flicked it back to the on position. “Idiot! Kathy’s right—I need to quit drinking!”
On instinct, he undressed and stepped into the shower. The hot water helped soothe the tightness in his shoulders and back and made him smell better after a thorough scrubbing with soap yet didn’t help clear the fogginess from his throbbing head. Leaning against the wall for support, he tried to remember the events after the funeral yet came up blank.
A soft knock on the door made him jump.
“Breakfast’s ready. Come and get it while it’s hot!”
“Okay.”
Wrapping a towel around his waist, Kip stepped out of the bathroom and across the hall to his room. After dressing in fresh clothes, he followed the smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee.
Bradford set one plate and mug on the table. He smiled while nodding toward the spread. “I planned on fixing biscuits too, but you didn’t have any flour. Hope this helps ease your gut and head. I’ll leave now so you can rejuvenate.”
Hoping Bradford could fill in some blanks, Kip said, “I’m okay. I appreciate you going to all this trouble. You should join me.”
“No trouble at all. I love to cook but I’m not hungry. You go ahead.”
Kip stared at the table, worried about how his gut would react if he ate.
“I know it’s none of my business, but you really should think about cutting back on the amount of alcohol you consume. Thank goodness you were on foot and not behind the wheel. The next time you—or some innocent motorist—might not be so fortunate.”
Heat flushed Kip’s cheeks. “I know. My wife tells me all the time. My inability to stop drinking is why we split up. Recent events sent me into a rough patch. Between separating from Kathy and the death of my parents and some, uh, other things, it’s a lot to handle. Obviously, I’m not doing a very good job. Alcohol’s my crutch.”
“I’m aware. Your father used the same aid, like a lot of people in this world.”
Kip sighed.
“Mind if I get a bit paternal?”
Easing down in the chair, Kip nodded. Concentrating on Bradford’s words rather than throwing up again as the aroma of food hit him, he took a long swig of ice water.
“I worked more fatality accidents involving alcohol than I care to remember over the years. God, what metal, pavement, and glass does to a body at high speeds is awful, yet it pales in comparison to what it does to the fragile frame of a child. Some images are forever imprinted on my heart and soul.”
Kip hung his head in shame. He thought about Grayson. What if someone like him got behind the wheel and crashed into Kathy’s car with his son inside? Goosebumps popped out all over his body at the morbid thought.
“I understand mental pain. Grief. The inability to deal with stressful situations. I’m not too proud to admit I sought refuge from life at times at the bottom of a bottle. Dealing on a daily basis with man’s inhumanity takes a heavy toll on the ol’ heartstrings. Fortunately, my wife loved me enough to jerk a knot in my tail every time I started down the slippery slope of alcoholism. When she passed on, I almost cracked. I went to the liquor store and everything. For two days straight, I sat in my recliner, cradling a bottle of Jack as though a child yet in the end, I threw it away without taking one little nip.”
“You’re lucky. Kathy kicked me out for drinking yet ignores her own addiction problems of another sort. Her, uh, drug of choice is coke. She works at night, so it helps her stay awake.”
“Yeah, sometimes it works that way. I believe the Bible says something along the lines of being able to spot the speck in a friend’s eye yet unable to see the beam in your own.”
Kip snorted. “True.”
“Menfolk have been taught to suppress emotions since the dawn of time. I used to feel like that, you know, thought I needed to be all tough, stoic, and suck-up the pain because my pa insisted. He died at the age of sixty-three and I never, not once, saw him cry. Not even one tear slid down his face when my mother died.”
“My son has seen me cry, though every time was when I was apologizing to his mother for drinking.”
“Well, that’s a start, I guess. Now that I’m older and wiser, I know different. Asking for and seeking help doesn’t mean one is weak. It means you’re stronger than the demon inside you, holding you captive.”
Blinking back the tears swimming in his eyes, Kip swallowed twice before responding. “I can’t tell you how many times I overheard my mother beg my dad to get help. The conversation always ended in a wicked fight. It took Dad nearly dropping Grayson when he was a baby because he was so drunk to finally seek treatment.”
Bradford pointed to the chair across from Kip. “May I?”
“Sure.”
Once seated, Bradford studied Kip’s face. There was no malice, no bubbling anger, no shield erected. He knew Kip was holding his secret tight, assuming Bradford didn’t know. A surge of sadness and regret pricked his heart. What if he was having a conversation with his son?
No, I’m having a conversation with a broken man, like I used to be, seeking redemption for mistakes he cannot change.
Picking the words with care, Bradford asked, “You don’t remember a thing about last night, or why you ended up at Ms. Chapman’s, do you?”
Heat raced to Kip’s cheeks as he slowly shook his head. “No. Everything’s blank after coming home from the funeral.”
Bradford sensed the man’s answer was honest. “This isn’t the first time you blacked out, is it?”
“No.”
“So, I’ll ask you the same question my sponsor did years ago: What tragedy will it take befalling you before giving up the bottle for good? If losing your wife and son didn’t do the trick, aren’t you concerned about what will, if anything?”
Kip remained silent, staring at the steaming eggs and crisp bacon.
“You’re fortunate the night ended up with you at the home of someone you know who was kind enough to let you inside out of the cold. What if next time you find yourself at a stranger’s house and they mistake you for a burglar and call the law? Or worse, shoot you?”
“Guess if I got shot, I wouldn’t have to worry about sobering up and dealing with life’s bullshit?”
Bradford chuckled at Kip’s joke. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. However, your wife and son would have to learn to pick up the pieces of their hearts and go on without you, which is sad. You really want Grayson to grow up without his father?”
Kip shook his head.
“Then you need to drop the emotional baggage riding shotgun and work on staying sober and being the best role model possible to Grayson. You don
’t want him to grow up like you did then turn out the same way, right? Wandering around town, passing out on random porches, drinking so much he can’t remember what happened? Getting a lecture from an old, nosy man?”
Kip felt as though Bradford punched him in the gut. “No, I don’t. But, you don’t understand. There’re some things going on in my life I’ll never be able to get over. Never.”
Rising to his feet, Bradford cleared his throat. “If you continue down the booze path, then I guess your son is doomed to follow the Hale family tradition. Thankfully, I’ll be long gone and won’t have to lug his drunken ass home.”
Kip’s temper flared. “You said it’s Thursday, not Sunday, so go preach somewhere else. Though I have no idea why you did it, thanks for bringing me home and for breakfast, but I won’t listen to any more.”
Bradford smiled. “Ah, good. I hit a nerve. A son is every man’s Achilles heel. Tap into that connection. Use it as fuel when the urge to drink creeps up on you.”
Feeling like the world’s biggest asshole, Kip calmed down. “I’m sorry.”
Bradford waved his arm. “No problem. Another side effect of drinking—the hangover temper.”
Kip chuckled. He was grateful the old man understood where he was coming from. “Whining and crying are next, so maybe you should go before the waterworks start?”
“No need to apologize to me, Kip. Like I said, I was friends with the bottle before. It’s been over ten years since we hung out together. I considered it again when I found out I’m not long for this world, but again, overcame the temptation. I sort of want to experience the transition from this world to the next with a clear head and eyes.”
Kip’s mouth dropped open. “What does that mean? Are you saying you’re sick or something?”
Bradford nodded then grabbed his crotch. “Yep. Prostate cancer. My most prized body part betrayed me. Guess it’s rebelling from overuse during my younger days.”
Marveling at the fact Bradford could actually joke about his upcoming death, Kip smiled. “You’re sure taking your illness better than I would.”
“Because I’m not going through it alone.”
Kip’s eyebrows raised in confusion. “I thought you said your wife passed on?”
“She did, years ago. I have a shot at a second chance at love with Charmaine Chapman, though it will be brief.”
“I, uh, wow, I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It is what it is. The person you owe an apology to is Samantha Chapman. Oh, and a new set of sheets. I’m sure she tossed out the ones you threw up on.”
Taking several sips of hot coffee, Kip’s heartrate slowed. The way he figured, if Bradford was dating Sam’s mother, there was a connection, and had he said or done anything wrong, Bradford would be peppering him with questions.
Relieved by the thought yet disgusted by the notion of having to face Sam, Kip nodded in agreement. “I will.”
“Owning up to mistakes is a good start down the sobriety path. I have some errands to run before heading back home. You take care of yourself, Kip.”
“Will do.”
Bradford left without saying another word. Once inside the car, he sent a text to his friend. “On my way. Be there in ten. Like we talked about, I need the answer as soon as possible.”
By the time he made it to Central Avenue and turned left, his phone beeped a response. “You got it.”
Bradford sighed as mixed emotions rumbled around inside his head. The end to a thirty-plus mystery was only hours away yet the devastating results for one unlucky bastard would be generational.
TURNING UP THE long drive toward his secluded home, Richard stifled a yawn, tired from being up for thirty-six hours straight. His eyes felt like someone poured sea salt in them and his back was stiff from driving.
Smiling at the fresh memory of defiling the whore and ensnaring her inside his insidious game, Richard’s throaty chuckled filled the quiet interior of the car.
The woman had no idea what he had planned for her or how she and the worthless hunk of flesh known as her husband were insignificant pawns. Thinking about the wicked game it took months of strategizing, tweaking to perfection and now ready for execution made his stomach quiver in anticipation.
Pushing the button on the remote, he waited impatiently for the garage door to open, ignoring the orange rays of the early morning sun streaking through the trees. He yearned to continue planning yet he knew he was too tired and thus, might make a mistake. A long, hot shower followed by a few hours of fitful sleep called to him as he stepped out of the car, keys and phone in hand.
After locking the car and the garage, Richard tapped the code on the keypad then entered what his mother would have called the mud room. Removing his jacket, he placed it on the hook with care before making his way to the living room.
After turning on a small lamp, he powered up the phone then connected it to the charger. Once it came on and the screen lit up, he stared at the error message for several seconds. “Can’t sync device to your account. Please sign in again.”
“What the hell?”
Before he had a chance to tap any keys, the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. The scent—the faintest hint of her—hit him.
Taking a deep breath to control the hot fury rising inside his mind, Richard grimaced. Focusing his attention back to the phone, he entered the password. “Username and password incorrect. Please try again.”
He did.
“Username and password incorrect. Please try again.”
Sweat formed on his brow. Clicking on the “Forget your password?” link, he was prompted to enter the name of his first pet.
Closing his eyes to calm down so his fingers would stop shaking, Richard thought about the one and only Benton family pet—the plucky Irish Setter he named Blackjack. He loved the sweet thing. At the tender age of seven, he cried for weeks alone in his bed after the night his father held a gun to his mother’s head and made her slit the dog’s throat in front of him because Blackjack had an accident in the kitchen.
Opening his eyes, he typed in the dog’s name.
“Your entry does not match our records. Please try again.”
“It’s fucking Blackjack!” Richard yelled as he hit the keys again.
“Too many login attempts. For your security, the account has been temporarily locked. Need assistance? Click here for the help center.”
Richard dropped the phone onto the couch. Guided by primal instincts, he followed the unmistakable aroma of Samantha’s personal scent down the hallway and up the stairs.
Flicking on the bedroom light, he scanned the room. Nothing looked out of place, yet the smell was stronger. Glancing to his left, he noticed the closet door was slightly ajar.
Balling up his fist, hoping the sneaky little minx was cowering inside crammed into a corner, praying he wouldn’t open the door, Richard went into action. Jerking the door open, expecting Sam to be inside, he lunged.
The space was empty.
His gaze landed on the broken remains of his camera. “No you didn’t!” Bending down, he noticed the memory card was gone. “Oh, look at you Sam! I bet you creamed your panties when you found it. Too bad for you it was blank.”
A strange sense of foreboding swept over him. Rising to his feet, Richard walked over to the trunk at the end of his bed.
The edge of a silver key poked out from under the skirting.
“You crafty bitch!”
Opening the trunk, a wave of anger hit him so hard he feared he was close to having a stroke or heart attack when he realized the box of old records was gone. Unlocking the safe, noting the only copies he had of the tryst were missing, he flew into a blind rage.
Everything within his reach turned into a projectile. In seconds, the room was an inhabitable mess. Broken glass littered the floor; not one mirror, lamp, or picture survived his onslaught. The room took on an overpowering smell as the expensive bottles of men’s cologne shattered aga
inst the wall, their competing scents melding to form a rank aroma.
Richard raced downstairs toward the den, overcome with the sick feeling he would soon discover Sam hacked into his laptop and deleted the final remaining copy.
The whiteboards were still intact. Glancing up to the large painting over the fireplace, his stomach flipped.
No red light from the internal security camera.
Richard headed straight to the desk. Yanking the drawer on the right open, he found the shredded remains of the cables connecting the numerous cameras throughout the house. All the memory cards were missing—which meant the video of Samantha breaking in was gone as well.
Feeling a bit dizzy, he flopped into the chair. His mouth jerked into a warped grin as he read the sticky note taped to the blank screen of the laptop.
“GAME. OVER.”
“No way! No fucking way!” Richard screamed at the top of his voice.
While in a frenzy, he tried every trick he knew to restore the hard drive, all to no avail. His mind teetered on the edge of homicidal hysteria. With a final, primal scream, he flung the laptop into the fireplace, laughing uncontrollably as it smashed into the unyielding bricks.
Pacing around like a caged jungle cat, fists clasping and unclasping at his sides as he lashed out at anything breakable, Richard mumbled to himself.
Grabbing the last, framed picture off the edge of the desk, he paused before hurling it to the floor. The faces of his parents at their twentieth anniversary dinner stared back.
A new, diabolical plan formed in seconds, sending his thoughts over to an opposite trajectory than the original one.
“You’re going to pay for this betrayal, for this intrusion into my private space, Samantha. Dearly. You’ll suffer more than words can express or screams can impart to those within earshot. Too bad no one will be around to hear your pleas.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Saturday, December 3, 2016
SAM’S FINGERS SHOOK as she typed in a response to Bradford’s text. Knowing he was on his way with the DNA results made her heart pound and stomach flip-flop. Grabbing a fresh cup of coffee and a pack of smokes, she headed out to the back deck.
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