by Nikki Sex
In the long run, I don’t think self-interest should be the prime motivation in every case. There’s something to be said about taking responsibility for one’s own actions. What’s the point of saving money, or even your freedom, if you end up losing your soul?
I was an angry asshole as a teen. I managed my rage by keeping away from everyone. Isolated and alone, I’d been so absorbed by my own evils, I couldn’t connect to others.
I never knew what my father did to anyone else.
To my mind, making amends, as recommended by my recovery program, isn’t about redemption. Nor is its goal simply to feel better about oneself. For me it’s about setting things right.
Chapter 20.
“Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.”
― C. S. Lewis
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Despite the sense of reserve I feel from him, I’m convinced Bronowski’s an honest cop and a decent man. He may not trust me, and there’s the possibility of his future betrayal, but I’m going to take a leap of faith. I’m going to trust him anyway.
Besides, he needs to know there could be many more suspects out there. All of them would have a motive to kill my father.
I clear my throat. “Until recently, I never considered the possibilities uh, you know—of what my father may have done. I’ve gone to André Chevalier for counseling about my childhood issues, working through all of the shit my father put me through.”
The detective nods, glances my way. “I know. I’ve met Chevalier. He’s a good guy.” The car rolls to a stop at a red light.
Bronowski turns toward me, his heavy brow furrows in thought. “What do you mean, until recently?” he asks, meeting my gaze.
“Pull over for a minute, will you?”
The traffic moves off, we drive for a minute. When the detective pulls off to the side of the road, I take the photos out of my back pocket and hand them to him.
“These arrived by mail yesterday with no return address. Nothing else was in the envelope, but it was postmarked from a suburb of Dallas.”
Bronowski’s jaw clenches. He briefly flicks through them and nods. “I can’t say positively because I didn’t see each one, but these seem to be some of what Edgar found on your father’s computer.”
“Really? That’s it? Was there anything else?”
“Yeah, as I told you. Thousands of images of child pornography, but everything’s gone,” Bronowski says, handing back my photos and pulling out onto the road again. “The hard drive was wiped, Gates went missing and then he was found dead.”
“The hard drive from my father’s computer was wiped?” I probe, not attempting to hide the alarm in my voice. “Jesus, it was at the police station! That means someone who works there must have done it, but why?”
Bronowski says nothing.
I frown in concentration, thinking things through. Gates saw that evidence. Was he in any of those pictures? Had he been protecting his own reputation by wiping the drive?
That makes no sense. Edgar Gates could’ve easily deleted any pictures he saw of himself. But did he have time to look through thousands? Maybe he found one and decided to wipe them all. If it wasn't him, then who? Whoever did it had to work at the police station to gain access.
Perhaps someone else found out about the photos and they paid to destroy the evidence. A friend of my dad’s maybe, or some other pedophile. After wiping the drive they killed Gates, wrapping up any loose ends.
My father had many rich, powerful friends. Do pedophiles band together to share activities or pictures like this? It’s a terrible thought.
Maybe they killed my father and not Alex, after all. It’s too much to hope for, really. My brother had a plan to kill our father and that exact plan was put into effect. Who else except Alex could have done that?
My brother is a murderer, but my only regret is I didn’t kill our father first.
I always believed that while drunk or on drugs, Alex told his friend, Stan Huber his scheme—exactly the same way Alex had told me. Stan, a good friend of my brother, chose not to get him in trouble with the police. Instead he testified I committed the crime in order to get out of jail.
I have to wonder, is Huber a part of this? Maybe he’s being blackmailed. There are so many possibilities. I make a mental note, it’s time to talk to Stan… and my brother.
I'm itching to know so many things. Who mailed the pictures to Danny and me? How are they involved in this mess? How many other people received their own set of disturbing images?
“What did you mean when you said until recently?” The detective asks me again, pulling me from my reverie. “Are you telling me your father abused others?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Like I said, I had no idea there were others. I'd never considered the possibility. Danny Berdeaux came to me after he received a hand-delivered envelope in his mailbox. Danny’s picture is similar to the ones I just showed you, only instead of me, my father was with Danny, when Danny was a kid.”
Bronowski sits up straight, at full attention. “When did this happen?”
“I don’t know exactly, you’d have to ask Danny. He told me about it sometime last week.”
Deep in thought, neither of us speaks until we arrive home. Bronowski pulls up in front of my house, puts the Impala in park and turns off the ignition off. The engine dies. For a moment, all is silent.
At that point, we both observe something startling.
In fact, it shocks the hell out of us.
What the fuck?
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise as my sister, Betty Jo, bursts out of the front door of my home as if shot from a gun. Elegantly dressed to wow potential real estate clients, she’s wearing a black and white designer dress and four inch heels.
Usually, not one hair on her head would ever dare to be out of place, but just now, it looks as though her entire hairdo is in full mutiny. Tearing by us in a mad dash, Betty Jo’s thick brunette tresses are in a tangle as they sail behind her in the wind. Her dark blue eyes are wide with fear. She’s terrified!
My mouth drops open.
Shutting and opening my eyes, I blink rapidly, half expecting the scene before me to disappear.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m imagining this. In an utter panic, her arms are up in the air gesticulating back and forth wildly. Her petulant mouth open and screaming, Betty Jo sprints full speed away from the house.
On the top of her head it looks as if she’s wearing an odd black and white fur hat… but she isn’t.
Holy shit! It’s Mitten!
Mitten is stuck to her head—he has a good hold. I wonder what my sister did to piss off such a sociable cat? Mitten’s tail flies behind him as all four paws firmly cling onto Betty Jo’s scalp.
Stunned, Bronowski and I watch, frozen to stillness. Only our eyes move, tracking the scene before us. The muted sound of Betty Jo’s screams filter through the car.
My gaze trails my sister’s desperate flight from my house on our left, down the stairs, across the lawn, then past the front of Bronowski’s sedan, right across the road to the door of her parked car.
After successfully vanquishing his enemy, Mitten jumps off of her head. He darts back across the road, across the lawn, up the stairs, and zips through the still open front door, back into my home.
At the same moment, Betty Jo leaps into her Range Rover, slams the car door shut, starts the engine. The moment her car purrs to life, she punches the accelerator. The powerful car roars, tires squeal and burn rubber as she peels out. Betty Jo flies by as if the fiery hounds of hell are after her.
Silence surrounds us as the street becomes quiet once more.
I can’t believe it. Did I just see what I think I saw?
The whole thing took under thirty seconds. Only the smell of burning rubber is testament to what just happened.
Eyes bright, Bronowski and I turn to stare at each other. The detective has had personal experience with Renata’s best f
riend and protector. Did Mitten scratch him or any of his officers? In any case. I know he scared the hell out of them.
I can't help but be pleased by what I just witnessed. That was pure entertainment. Lord, I love that cat!
I hate my sister.
Bronowski hates Mitten.
When our eyes meet an expectant, meaningful look passes between us. A woman being viciously attacked by a house cat is a terrible, terrible thing. Our mouths twitch. For one perfect moment we can read each other’s mind. It’s not funny at all.
But it really is!
In the same instant, Bronowski and I both throw back our heads and burst into unrestrained laughter. Tears run from our eyes. We fall all over ourselves, doubled over, unable to breathe—each utterly-off-our-face hysterical.
Talk about best male bonding moment of all time!
Chapter 21.
“Mindfulness means paying attention in a particular way; on purpose, in the present moment, and nonjudgmentally.”
Kabat-Zinn
~~~
Renata Koreman
Earlier today, Grant was taken away by the police, leaving me behind with Briley. I’ve no idea why the police picked him up this time. Did they find new evidence against him about his father's murder?
Not knowing what the hell is going on leaves me in a difficult place. I can't help fearing what this will mean for him, as well as for our future together.
On a positive note, I’m proud of myself for keeping it together. The last time the police came, I was a total basket case. Frankly, I was lucky not to have been hauled off to a mental hospital. Mitten protected me, ferociously scratching and biting and fighting anyone who came near. If necessary, my sweet Mitten would’ve taken on the entire police force, I’m sure.
Detective Bronowski had been sensitive and concerned. He’d apologized, made everyone back off, and assured me I would be left alone.
Not long after Grant left this morning, Maria arrived. It's nice to have her around, although just now she’s upstairs cleaning bathrooms. I’m downstairs in the kitchen, feeding Briley applesauce.
The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I yell up to Maria.
“Muchas gracias,” she calls back.
I unbuckle Briley from his highchair, pick him up and take him with me to answer the door. To my utter disappointment—and mild terror, I find Grant’s sister standing on the front porch.
Crap. Only Betty Jo can give something as delicious as a 'BJ' a bad name.
Her expensive Burberry dress looks amazing. It’s from the Wilderness Collection, white with big black spots—it’s kind of like the fur on an animal. With her four inch heels, she appears elegant, sexy and in complete command of her world.
I can’t help but be jealous of her unshakable confidence.
Her chin raises, her nose points up in the air. “Where’s Grant?” she asks, her voice haughty with contempt. “He’s not answering his phone.”
I blink when a strong blast of breath mints wafts through the air.
As a functional alcoholic, Grant’s sister masks the smell of whiskey with extra strength breath fresheners. One whiff and my eyes burn.
Talk about a wake-up call! I stubbornly force myself to meet her gaze, pretending I'm not freaking out inside.
I want to close and lock the door in her face. I wish her away, far away. Maybe if I focus really hard and click my heels together three times, she'll disappear.
“This is a workday for Mr. Wilkinson,” I reply carefully, enunciating each word so I don’t stutter.
This is technically a true statement, just not an answer to her question. I avoid lying as much as humanly possible, so I hope she doesn’t press the matter. In this case, it's not up to me to tell her that her brother’s been carted off by the police. That's his business to share or not, as he sees fit.
“I called the shooting range and he’s not there,” she snaps. Her dark blue eyes flash as she squeezes past me, through the front door, into the kitchen area.
“W-w-would you like to come in and w-w-wait for him?” I ask politely, even though she’s already inside.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I often find myself stuttering when dealing with belligerent people like Betty Jo. This degree of disapproval and disdain throws me right back into my past. I feel like the scared kid I was when being bullied throughout my childhood.
This snooty, rude bitch comes along, and I’m right back there.
I hate that Grant’s sister has the power to unnerve me as she does. I've worked long and hard to find my inner strength. How does she reduce me to gibbering so quickly, without the clear threat of violence?
I take deep, slow breaths as I force myself not to cower. Luckily, I begin to feel a fiery, internal heat from her ultra-superior, mightier-than-thou attitude. My inner anger is a wonderful thing, giving me a burst of dogged valor.
I decide not to take her shit. What right does she have to treat me like crap?
Last night was perfect.
Today, I’m going to be brave.
I place Briley back in his high chair and buckle him in, my mind spinning on overdrive the whole time. I don't know when Grant will return so I might be stuck with his sister for a few hours. I honestly don’t know if I can do it.
Fuck. How would André handle this? Of course, he’s André. Every woman loves him, so he’s no real help in this situation. Still, he somehow remains true to himself while being respectful.
I recall my asshole uncle on the day I first met André. Uncle dearest certainly tried André's patience. If he was the representative for ‘Mankind’ they’d have to rename it ‘Mancruel.’ How did André remain in polite command of his behavior during their exchange? When my reluctant relative left the room, André vented his feelings.
I resolve no matter what Betty Jo throws my way, I won’t back down and I won’t fall to her level. I don’t want to be a bitch. I’ll take the high road and remain polite, even in the face of her offensive attitude.
Yes, I’ll just channel my 'inner-André.
This should be interesting… particularly if I begin to stutter in French!
Mindfulness. I’ll use the mindfulness techniques André taught me ages ago. I’ll keep a straight face, be here and let her shit flow. I won’t allow said shit to touch or affect me.
I sit down, scoop up another spoonful of applesauce and bring it to Briley’s mouth. “You like applesauce don’t you handsome?” I coo with a smile.
“Ma, ma, ma,” Briley says. I wish Sky were here to hear this. Of course, Sky would hate to be anywhere near her sister-in-law.
Betty Jo sits down at the kitchen table across from me, so she’s on the other side of Briley. “You really have no idea where he’s gone?”
Mindfulness, I remind myself as my nostrils are assaulted by a fresh minty wave. “Mr. Wilkinson didn’t t-t-tell me his plans.”
She glares at me with shrewd, mocking eyes. “You like my brother, don’t you? Or are you just after his money? Either way, forget it. Grant’s completely out of your league. He’d never marry a woman like you. And that stutter,” she drags out the word with a snide voice. “Is it from a brain injury? Can’t you fix that? Aren’t you embarrassed and ashamed?”
I close myself off and don’t reply to this nasty comment.
I continue to calmly feed Briley, ignoring her. Surprisingly, Betty Jo’s stutter comment doesn’t hurt me in the least. I wonder why? Grant’s sister has a very low opinion of me, but the opinion I have of her is probably even lower.
Maybe that’s why I don’t care what she thinks.
When I keep my mouth closed, Betty Jo continues, “Like any man, Grant may screw you blind, but he’ll never be loyal. Men get their brains caught in their zippers. There are too many skanky sluts out there trying to take advantage of them.”
I force myself to look at Betty Jo—to really look at her, as I’ve never had the nerve to do before.
Is this woman so miserable she can’t be content unle
ss she’s making somebody else miserable too? Maybe she needs to bring others low, so she can feel better by looking down at them. What a tragic, pathetic existence. I actually pity her. Betty Jo wouldn't know true happiness or love if it bit her on the ass!
I picture her laughing at the pain and suffering of others. I bet she masturbates to blooper reels, disaster films and tragedies. I’m surprised by my bitter and mean thoughts.
So much for me rising above her nastiness.
Grant’s sister is obnoxious, but that’s not unusual. It's her MO. Yet today something seems different about her. I can't quite put my finger on it. What is it?
I study her face carefully, and after a moment, it dawns on me. Betty Jo's genuinely upset. I don't think this is her usual, everyday anger and irritation. Her eyes are red and slightly puffy. I think she’s been crying.
Great. Now I feel guilty.
I have an irrational knee-jerk reflex to blame myself when people are upset. Maybe because when I was a child my father blamed his bad moods on me. I was young enough to believe everything was my fault.
But Betty Jo is not happy, regardless of whether I'm around. Pointing the finger at anyone other than herself is her norm. Yet, realizing she’s upset changes the dynamic on my part. As a born nurturer, I want to help. Doing so comes naturally.
I remember what she said earlier and it suddenly makes sense, Men get their brains caught in their zippers. There are too many skanky sluts out there to take advantage of them.
“Was your partner unfaithful?” I ask, genuinely sympathetic.
Her eyes widen, her mouth drops open. Judging by Betty Jo’s immediate response, mine was a very good guess.
Chapter 22.
“Someone told me the delightful story of the crusader who put a chastity belt on his wife and gave the key to his best friend for safekeeping, in case of his death. He had ridden only a few miles away when his friend, riding hard, caught up with him, saying 'You gave me the wrong key!”
