by Kade, Teagan
It’s another handwritten letter from my mother. What the hell does she want now? The last time I received a letter like this, my whole world went up in flames. Literally.
Which is how I know this can’t be good. I haven’t heard from her since our last phone call, when I threatened to confess everything, to give up on her, and to release myself from the prison of guilt and shame I’ve been residing in.
I rip the letter open before I make it to the front door, my patience getting the better of me. I scan over it first, trying to get a feel of it, seeing if it’s worth my time and concern.
Travis. Warning. Sorry. These are the key words I see repeatedly, written in her handwriting.
What’s going on?
I look around me to ensure no one’s watching, suddenly feeling vulnerable with these words staring back at me. I run back into theroom, closing the door and locking it securely.
I lean against the floor and slide down to the floor clutching onto the letter. I re-read the first few lines of the letter out loud, hoping my mind is playing tricks on me and that the letter doesn’t really say what I think it does.
Beth,
Please forgive me. I don’t know what else to say, but I’m sorry. Travis made me do it. He would’ve left me if I didn’t make you do it.
I’m not sick. I’m not dying. It was all a part of his plan—to fake a terminal illness, convince you I’m dying and that I needed money for my treatments. It all seemed so easy at the time. But, I promise, baby, it was all his idea.
Panic rises in my throat. I start to hyperventilate, choking on the air that’s supposed to be keeping me alive. I might throw up or pass out, or both. How is this happening?
I re-read the words again and again, wanting the letters to rearrange themselves into a message less cruel or at least less infuriating.
I drop the letter next to me and put my head between my knees, needing the sudden spell of dizziness to go away. The world I thought I knew has been ripped out from below me, violently.
It might not have been on steady ground, but at least I had an idea of the cracks and holes I was standing on. Now, as it whips around me, I try to grasp onto something for balance, to make some sense of what’s happening.
I sigh loudly and prepare myself for another onslaught of words.
I have to read on. I can’t go on without knowing everything, without trying to understand why my mother would do this to me, her fucking daughter.
After our phone call, I knew I really screwed up. I never wanted to put you in this position, Beth. It hurts me more than you know. You’re going through all this guilt and anxiety, putting yourself on the line, both personally and legally, and I made you do it. I did this to you, I know.
But I was afraid. Travis threatened to leave me if I didn’t go through with it.
Are you fucking kidding me?
All I see is red, the buried anger I’ve stored away towards my mother electrifying me. Furious doesn’t even begin to describe it.
But really, why am I surprised? It’s not like she’s ever put me first when it came to her boyfriends. They always reigned over me, pushing me to the back-burner. Hell, not even that close.
I was the scum in the toilet she never cleaned. She never cared for my well-being unless it got in the way of whatever boyfriend was in her bed. Like now.
But this… this is a new low. Even for her.
I continue to read on, despite the hate I feel for her.
We needed money. We still do, and this was Travis’ plan to get some easy cash. He threatened me, Beth. I had no other choice. Please, believe me.
Like always, she pleads innocent, blaming it on someone else, as if she didn’t have a say in the matter.
“Yes! Yes, you fucking did!” I scream at the letter. Anger consumes me, thrashing through my body, boiling my blood. I picture steam rising from my skin. It takes every ounce of my restraint not to rip the letter into shreds.
There’s some semblance of common sense poking at me, though. I realize I could use this as evidence on my behalf.
I can now prove I’ve been forced, somewhat, into doing this.
Maybe my sentencing wouldn’t be so harsh then?
So I smooth out the letter and release my iron-clad grip.
He made me believe you deserved this. Travis told me because you left the house, leaving me the way you did, you deserved to be taken advantage of. And I believed it. I was so angry at you for so long, and this was my revenge, my way of getting back at you.
“Angry at me?” I yell.
But after we last talked, reality struck me. I have been a terrible mother to you. And this is no exception. I should’ve never blamed you for leaving home. It makes sense to me why you did.
You had to leave to make a better life for yourself, one that wasn’t dictated by a man who can’t keep a roof over his, or our, heads.
The red I’ve been seeing slowly fades.
I re-read her admission, wanting to feel the relief of her taking responsibility and admitting she’s a terrible mother. I almost feel vindicated, justified, like all the pieces of my fragmented and screwed up life are being taped together.
Although it’s not a pretty picture, I begin to feel whole again.
She continues to spill her guts. You left and got away, and I’m so happy you did. A part of me is jealous, not going to lie, but a bigger part of me is proud of you.
However, this letter is more than an apology. I’m writing you now to warn you. Travis overheard our last conversation, unbeknownst to me, I promise. He took my phone, and this is only way I can contact you and warn you. I hope you get it.
My stomach drops. Fear singes my nerves.
I jump up from the floor and take a step forward, the wooden floor creaking under my shoes. The sound startles me, but I shake it off. I don’t think I have anything to fear just yet, but her warning puts me on edge.
I continue to read the letter as I walk around. It seems endless.
Travis knows you’re not going to go through with the insurance claim. He’s pissed and he’s threatened to come to LA to make you go through with it. I don’t know what that entails, but I know it won’t be a friendly visit. I’ve been trying my hardest to convince him to leave you alone. So far, my stalling tactics have worked, but I know he’ll get bored of them soon.
I sink to my knees, anxiety overtaking my senses, piercing though my body. It’s hard to stomach all this information.
Travis is after me, and he knows everything. I don’t know what he’s capable of, but the fact he came up with this shady idea, convincing my mom to lie about a sickness and forcing me to set my house on fire, tells me he’s capable of so much worse.
My mouth goes dry as the reality of my situation sinks in. I’m in danger. I might not have been before, when Derek thought I was, but now I am.
This is my warning. As I said, I hope you get this before it’s too late. It was the only way I could warn you without him knowing. Again, I can’t stress this enough: please be safe and careful.
I’m sorry. So sorry. I never wanted this to happen, I never planned for this, but I was between a rock and a hard place. I hope you can understand that someday.
I know it’s too much to ask for right now, but one day in the future I hope you find it in your heart to love me again. I have been a terrible mother, I realize that, and it pains me to no end I’ve done so wrong by you. But, hopefully, there’ll be a day when you can trust me.
And with that gravely hopeful ending, she ends the letter signing it with a simple Love, your mother, Lucinda.
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. This letter is both my redemption and my demise. I hold it in my hands as if it were the most precious thing I’ve ever touched. Who knew my mother could be so damn eloquent?
I don’t move, immobilized by the apology, the confession, the admission, and most of all, the warning.
How did I let this happen? Where is Travis? And, most of all, what in the h
ell do I do now?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DEREK
The boys and I unload the truck, mostly in silence.
Finally.
I relish this rare moment of peace and quiet.
We strip off our gear and I rid myself of the hipster’s avocado grime. Ugh.
Then, like clockwork, my peaceful moment is interrupted.
“Ay! His dick got so bored of normal pussy he had to go for some crazy snatch to keep him hard,” Mike wails in laughter, hitting Tim in chest. I ignore him, walking past the assholes. “Ay, did we hurt your feelings, wee Derek?”
“Shut up, Mike,” I shout back at him, walking up the stairs to the clubhouse.
I ignore them as they continue their colorful commentary. They never cease to amaze me with how creative they can be about Beth and, now, my so-called crazy dick.
I pull my phone out, checking it for the umpteenth time, and am met with the same message: Read.
I twirl the phone around in my hands, feeling more restless than before. I don’t know why I keep checking it other than pure impulse and instinct.
I’d know if she contacted me. I’d hear it or feel it, at least.
Pathetic.
There’s still a strange, unfamiliar part of me that’s holding on to a sliver of hope, ridiculous as that might sound.
God, I’m so out of my element with her.
My irritation quickly evolves into dread as I lock eyes with Officer Brady.
What in the hell is he doing here?
I slide my phone back into my pocket and clear my throat, preparing for another joyful interaction with the Officer Brady. He really is relentless.
A part of me admires his tenacity to get the job done and figure out the cause of Beth’s fire—if it has to do with Beth and her safety, I support it, but I also have a feeling he’s looking for something that’s not there. Like, he’s trying to find something that doesn’t exist.
“Officer Brady. What a pleasant surprise,” I say, forcing my greeting through gritted teeth and a strained jaw.
“Derek.” He nods and drops a folder and pen on our makeshift kitchen table.
“Have you been here long?” I look around the clubhouse to see if anything’s out of place or missing. Everything seems to be in order, but the ominous way in which he showed up, out of the blue, rubs me the wrong way.
This whole encounter seems… off.
“Not too long. Are you busy?” He jumps right to it, avoiding any conversational decorum.
“The boys will be right up, so whatever it is it’ll have to be quick,” I say.
“Do you have a more private place to speak, then? It’s urgent, and I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say. It’s regarding Beth and her fire,” he presses, each word coming out more curtly than the next.
I sigh, rolling my eyes slightly. Of course it has to do with Beth and her fire. Why else would he be here?
“Sure.” I glance behind Brady to see if McAllister’s office is open. “Follow me. We’ll take the Chief’s office for now. But again, he’ll be needing it soon,” I warn him.
He trails behind me. I close the door once he’s in the office. He looks around him and then, he does what everyone does their first time in the Chief’s office—examine the wall of fame. At least, that’s what we like to call it anyway.
It’s a wall dedicated to the Chief’s numerous certificates and associations, plus pictures of his family and random community members who eye him as a local celebrity.
“Impressive, huh?” I nod in its direction.
“So, you went back to Beth’s house?” Brady cuts me off.
Well, that’s direct—and not at all what I was expecting him to ask. It takes me aback a moment and, before I open my mouth to respond, I stop myself, knowing if I go off pure instinct I’ll say something I’ll regret.
“Why?” he asks me again.
“Are you interrogating me or something? Don’t you have to arrest me first?” I ask cautiously, and take a sit in the Chief’s chair behind his desk. I already need some distance.
“I’d like to know why you were snooping around an active crime scene.” His expression is stone-cold, impenetrable even, but if I tell him the truth, I’ll be screwed.
“Have you found any leads?” I ask. Not only do I not want to the answer, I want to create a diversion and get him off my fucking back.
“First, answer my question. Why were you at Beth’s house?”
Jesus H. He stops looking around the office and takes a seat in the chair across from me, dropping that damn folder on the desk between us like the cop cliché he is.
“The Chief sent me.” I sit up straighter while I concoct the perfect alibi. “I’m up for lieutenant and he wanted to see how I would do if I accepted the position.”
Brady’s eyes narrow. He grabs the folder, shuffling the papers around aimlessly. It appears to be a common tactic of his, acting like he’s thinking over what the suspect said, even if he doesn’t care at all.
He cups his chin with his pointer finger and thumb, tracing his lips while he scrolls over the documents.
“Interesting,” he finally mutters. “So, being lieutenant requires snooping around a taped-off investigation site, does it?”
“One that’s not accidental, yes. And one I was on-duty for, yes,” I push back.
I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but what does this guy take me for? Even if it is a lie, it’s not like this is my first day on the job.
He’s not buying it. “I’m not familiar with that protocol, sorry. You might have to enlighten me.”
I lean back, folding my hands together in front of my chest. I open my mouth, about to make up some imaginary protocol that’s believable, but he interrupts me.
Thank God.
“But that’s not why I’m here.” He drops the folder on the table again, but this time, he opens it up so the documents face me.
I lean forward and squint, trying to make out the grainy pictures and read the few documents I can see. I reach for one of the photos that looks vaguely familiar, but I get distracted when somebody knocks.
The Chief opens the door a moment later without any permission to do so. It is his office, after all. His eyes dart between Brady and me.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks as we make eye contact, tilting his head to the side with suspicion.
“Yes. I have more information on Elisabeth Montgomery’s fire. I think Derek might be privy to it,” Brady says, pulling the Chief’s attention away from me before shooting me a menacing look himself.
I shrug my shoulders, giving them my best ‘I have no fucking clue’ expression.
“Make it fast. I have paperwork to complete.” McAllister’s expression grows wary, but only for a second before it’s back in its Chief demeanor—stoic and rugged.
He shuts the door and I return my attention back to the picture. I pick it up, bringing it closer.
It’s Beth’s house. Those are her curtains. The same acetone-soaked curtains I found.
“I’m building a case against Beth. I have reason, and evidence, to believe she attempted to commit insurance fraud.”
Shit.
“What?”
The weight of my body sinks. It’s like an A-bomb’s just been dropped on my head.
Insurance fraud? Beth? No, no. She couldn’t have done that.
I’m frozen. I sit staring at the picture, unable to form words in response.
But when I finally regain my mobility, all I can do is look up at him. His expression, all smug and confident, ignites a type of anger in me I’ve only felt once in my life—when I was at Beth’s house.
My need to protect her grows tenfold. I sit up straighter, claiming my position as her protector.
“Due to the strange circumstance of the fire and the fragments of evidence we’ve uncovered in our investigation, all signs lead to insurance fraud,” he explains, albeit vaguely.
“Insurance fraud? Really?
What about arson? She could be in danger, and all you can think of is fucking insurance fraud? She is the victim in all of this,” I shoot back almost immediately, anger igniting my words.
The fact he isn’t even considering she’s in danger blows my mind. Isn’t it supposed to be innocent until proven guilty?
I fight my need to punch him, to release some tension, but mainly to knock some common sense into him. But I know that’d only cause more damage and drama in this situation.
“You were there. You saw the evidence. It didn’t seem odd to you?” he asks. “The curtains were soaked in acetone, and the initial flame looked to be a considerable distance away from them. It was an amateur job that someone would only do if they were desperate… desperate for money.”
The accusation floats in the air like a grenade on the verge of eruption. It’s heavy and it elicits a vile taste in my mouth.
“Why would she be desperate for money?” I argue, pounding my fist on the desk. It makes a louder sound than I intend, but I don’t care.
This whole fucking thing is so frustrating. It doesn’t make an ounce of sense. I don’t know if she is or isn’t in need of money, but regardless, Beth is not capable of doing such a thing. That I’m sure of.
“You never know, Derek. People do crazy things for crazy reasons,” Brady says too nonchalantly. His cavalier attitude towards these accusations makes me want to hurl my chair at him.
But I don’t.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Fuck,” I whisper.
“Fuck, indeed,” he motions for me to return the photo and closes the folder. “And, if she’s found guilty, she will be facing a minimum of ten years in prison.”
“Worst-case scenario,” I spit out. “I know the law.”
“Okay, sure, but I have enough evidence here to put her away for years,” he warns me. He stands up, tucking his folder between his arm and chest.
He continues, “And if anyone is helping Beth, they’re an accessory to the crime. The repercussions of which are also punishable by law. Be careful, Derek.”
I glare at him, sending daggers straight into his fucking face.
“Good day.” He nods and walks out of the office.