by Frankie Rose
“THE SICK things is, Glen, this guy was a part of the community. He had contact with troubled teenagers who were in vulnerable positions. Who knows what he could have done to any of them.” The woman with the overly backcombed hair on the late night news runs her tongue over her teeth as though she’s used to getting lipstick on them. Her co-presenter focuses on her mouth for a second and I find myself absently wondering whether they’re sleeping together. The guy takes a sip of water from his glass and nods.
“I think that’s what the people of Wyoming are asking themselves right now, Kathy. We’re only discovering the extent of this man’s sickness now, years after the events took place. Maxwell Breslin was not only a charismatic man, but he was incredibly intelligent, too. Good at hiding his dark alter ego. Who knows what else is going to come out of the—”
I switch off the TV and stare at the blank screen. Seriously? Seriously? A dark alter ego? My dad could be a dick sometimes, especially to Mrs. Harlow when she allowed her Bijon Frise to crap on our driveway, but come on. The extent of his malicious capabilities was a strongly worded post-it note stuck on her letterbox. I tip my head back and let out a loud sigh. There’s no point trying to bury my head in the sand by avoiding stuff like this. It’s everywhere, and besides I don’t feel half as hideous as I thought I would. Maybe that has something to do with how ridiculous the lies are.
Leslie’s out for the evening, and Morgan’s parents are driving her to Seabrook House for her first therapy session since ‘the incident’. They’re returning to Charlestown straight afterwards, so no doubt Morgan is going to be in better spirits over the coming days.
There was a Way Out of Wyoming movie poster stuck to my apartment door when I got back from class, with my father’s face tacked over that of the hooded murderer’s. I’d considered causing a scene but I was just too tired. Instead, I did the only thing I could think of: I left it there. The only piece of advice Amanda St. French has ever given me that seems to work: if you don’t react, people get bored. And if they are bored, they soon forget about you and your baggage.
The knowledge the poster’s probably still there is driving me nuts, like any second I’m going to explode off the small sofa and yank the door open so I can burn it to ash there in the hallway. But I don’t. I leave it there, a practice in will power. I want to be ignored again, so if I have to put up with a couple of weeks of this, then I am damn well going to learn how.
I glance at my cell phone. It’s been quiet for the past three hours but I keep holding my breath like any minute it’s going to ring. I hate that I’m waiting for him to call. Hate it. I shouldn’t be feeling anything but stupid as a result of the other night, and yet I’m filled with a whole swirling mess of emotion. Anger. Hope that he won’t be mad at me for leaving his apartment. Resentment that I keep seeing his face every time I close my eyes. Fear that I may have been cold enough, rude enough, cruel enough to close the door on any opportunity we might have had to be…I don’t know what. Friends? Friends with Luke is safe. Anything else is dangerous, especially since he’s clearly as damaged as I am over my father’s death. He said he was jealous of me. That he used to wish Maxwell had been his dad, too. So how can he possibly have a healthy attraction to me? I snatch up my phone and decide to take control.
If Luke wants to talk, then we’ll talk. It just might not be the conversation he’s hoping for. I key in the number to my uncle’s house and start chewing my lip. When Brandon answers, he sounds out of breath.
“Tell me you were exercising and not involved in some kinky sex game with Monica Simpson. Please.”
A mildly disgusted sound emanates from the phone. “You’re sick, you know that?” Brandon laughs, rustling around on the other end. “I was just outside. Had to run for the phone. Monica and I have decided not to pursue our torrid affair.”
“Just too hot to handle, Uncle B?”
“Exactly. Truth be told, those boobs were just too—”
“BRANDON!” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the mental image. “I’m already scarred enough. Please don’t damage me further.”
More laughter. “Okay, kiddo. I hope that unfinished sentence haunts you. What’s up? Did you and Luke get things ironed out? I told him to call you.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that.”
“Just doing my duty as a responsible uncle.”
“Shouldn’t you be warning him to stay the hell away from me or something? Where is he anyway? I have some questions for him.”
“He left this morning. He probably wasn’t safe to drive but I couldn’t stop him. Said he needed to go see an old work colleague about some evidence.”
“About Dad?” I shift nervously in my seat, wondering if it’s something new. Something that might clear my father’s name. Or condemn him.
“No idea, sweetheart. You’d better call his cell phone.”
“Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m assuming you told Luke a whole bunch of stuff about me that I probably wouldn’t want him to know?”
“Of course.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Iris?”
I close my eyes. “Yes, Brandon?”
“Just call Luke.”
Twenty Four
D.M.F
