The Truth About Us

by Tia Souders

  They rode in silence for the next five minutes as Kaden directed her. When they turned into his neighborhood, a block with small but well-kept homes, Abigail pulled into the driveway of his house—a small white ranch with black shutters in need of a decent power wash. She put the car in park, then closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, again. Really.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe I actually hit you with my car,” she said.

  “Well, it was more of a tap.”

  “A tap? A few minutes ago, you accused me of trying to mow you down.”

  “That’s when you were being snippy. Besides, a moment ago, you accused me of stalking you.”

  She chuckled for the first time that day, then groaned as the base of her skull throbbed. “I feel crazy. I think all this is just too much.”

  “Hey, I understand. It’s normal to be kinda out of it after you lose someone. It’ll get better, though.”

  “No. It’s not that.” She shook her head, wondering how much she could tell a virtual stranger.

  Could she say anything at all? A part of her felt like she kind of owed him on account of hitting him with her car and all.

  “There’s some other stuff. I have a lot going on. Things inadvertently related to my grandmother.”

  “Maybe you need to take your mind off everything, even if for a couple hours. When my mom died, that’s what I did. I’d get lost in a book. Do something to occupy my brain so I couldn’t think.”

  “You lost your mom? I’m sorry.”

  He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. “It was a long time ago.” He flashed her one last smile and opened his door. “Try to focus on your driving though. I’m not so sure the next guy will be as understanding when he gets run over by a cute girl in a bright yellow car.”

  “Ha-ha! Funny,” she said, but she couldn’t deny feeling somehow lighter, better in his presence.

  Kaden started to get out but paused, plucking something off the sole of his sneaker.

  “I think you lost something.” He held the small rectangular card out in front of him. “Private Investigator?” He quirked a brow at her. “What do you need a private—”

  “Give me that!” Abby snatched the card from his hands before he could even finish. Her heart drummed in her chest as she looked over the business card. Where had it come from?

  Her gaze darted around the small car when she noticed a small cubby had flung open, probably when she hit Kaden’s bike.

  Turning her attention back at the card, she stared at it wide-eyed. “Holy crap. I found him.”

  KADEN SCRATCHED HIS jaw. “Um, not to be a killjoy for whatever you think you’ve found, but the card was sitting right here,” he said, pointing to his feet. “I’m not sure how big of a discovery it was.” When she said nothing, he asked, “Did you lose his contact information or something?”

  She stared at the card, the thoughts churning in her head. Could it really be this easy?

  “Isn’t it kind of weird for an eighteen-year-old to be hiring a private investigator?” he continued when Abby didn’t say anything.

  She whipped out her phone, ignoring him, and plugged the name Greg Lawson, private investigator Washington D.C. into the search bar and waited.

  The search arrow circled and circled, taunting her as it failed to load. “Oh, come on!” She chewed her lip as she refreshed the search. “Work!”

  Her screen faded before it turned black.

  “No!” With wide eyes, she smacked her phone, frantic to revive it. She pushed the power button continuously until the empty battery popped up on the blank screen.

  “Seriously?” Leaning her head back against the seat, she took a deep breath, telling herself to relax. If she didn’t get control, she’d never see this thing through without having a heart attack first. She could read the headline now: Breaking News: Girl has Stroke at Eighteen. Stress from Grandma’s Secret to Blame.

  When Kaden cleared his throat, she opened her eyes, nearly forgetting he was there. Glancing over at him, she asked, “Hey, can I use your computer? I need to look something up?”

  He frowned. “I don’t have the internet.”

  “Seriously?” She eyed him like he had three heads. “How do you do papers and stuff for school?”

  He shrugged. “Go to the library.”

  “People still do that?”

  “Living proof.”

  She sat there, staring. The notion of going to the library any time you had to do research or use the internet was the most bizarre thing she’d heard all day.

  Of course, he must use his phone...

  “Well, what about your phone? Can I borrow it really quick? Mine died.” When he said nothing, she wiggled her fingers out in front of her. “Please?”

  He ran a hand through his sandy hair, avoiding her gaze.

  Abigail scoffed. “What? You don’t want me using it?”

  When he said nothing, she rolled her eyes. “Next, you’re going to tell me you don’t have a phone.”

  “Actually...”

  “You don’t have a phone?” She gaped. “How is that possible? No internet. No phone. How do you survive? How do you go on social media or text or—"

  “I don’t, really. There’s not much of a need for socializing on your phone when you don’t have much of a social life to begin with. Besides, I’m not into that kind of thing.”

  “Okay, never mind.” She could survive the wait.

  Hopping out of the car, she helped him retrieve his bike from her trunk. “Sorry again, about the uh, the accident,” she said, gesturing toward his injured side.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  When he turned to leave, a pang of sympathy settled in her gut. She watched him wheel his bike with the bent frame, shuddering with every rotation of the damaged wheels and had to bite her thumbnail to stifle her laughter at the sight of him gimping along.

  She stepped forward, placing a tentative hand on his arm, noting the warmth of his skin along with the swell of muscle. Maybe it was guilt or the gold flecks in his brown eyes. Or maybe it was the way his hair continued to fall over his forehead or the soft curve of his smile, but she found herself wanting to see him again and not just at class. He was the first thing to make her smile in days.

  Unable to stop her growing grin, she hooked a thumb back toward the car. “Hey, it seems I’ve acquired a new ride.”

  She stared at her grandmother’s car, noting the fresh black scuff marks on the front bumper. “Why don’t I pick you up before school tomorrow?”

  “Nah. That’s okay.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she said. “You live less than ten minutes from my house and seeing as how I messed your bike up and all...”

  Kaden glanced from the car to Abigail to his bike and shrugged. “Well, if you’re sure...”

  “I could use the company,” she admitted, shocked at her own honesty.

  The corner of his mouth curled. “Okay, it’s a date.”

  “It’s not a date,” she said, backing toward her car. “It’s just a ride. But I’ll pick you up at seven?”

  He grinned. “Whatever you say.”

  She turned and got back into her car, replaying his answering smile the entire drive home, thinking how much of a mystery he was. An eighteen-year-old with no access to the internet or a phone? Unheard of.

  Maybe his family was Mormon or something. Were Mormons allowed access to technology? Abigail shook her head. Of course they were. It’s Amish who can’t have electronics. Hey, maybe he’s ex-Amish. She nodded and then laughed at the foolish thought. She may never find out. He didn’t seem forthcoming with details about himself.

  Then again, she wasn’t exactly an open book. Far from it. The only thing separating her and him was her slightly elevated social status. Of her small circle, she was closest to Cammie, but the depth of her friendships barely expanded outside the classroom. Still, at least she had a group of girlfriends. She couldn’t say the same about him. Abby couldn’t thin
k of one boy he hung out with.

  When she arrived home and ran into her bedroom, she closed and locked the door in case her father or grandfather decided they’d interrupt her. Thankfully, her mother was still at the museum fundraiser.

  After settling onto her bed, she pulled out her laptop and typed the P.I.’s name into the search engine, then waited, drumming her fingers against the mattress in nervous anticipation as the results loaded. His business page turned up at the top of the page, but as she scrolled down, her heart leaped as she read.

  Several articles boasted similar headlines. Private Investigator Found Dead—Body recovered from the bottom of a reservoir.

  A chill curled in her toes, shooting through her entire body. The date on the article was from ten years ago, around the time her grandmother would’ve been digging up their family tree and supposedly uncovered “the secret”.

  She swallowed as she clicked on the article, scanning for the facts.

  Late Thursday night, the body of a middle-aged, Caucasian male was pulled from the reservoir in Newberry Township, Virginia. Police identified the body as missing Private Investigator Greg Lawson. Authorities have ruled Lawson’s death a homicide and continue to investigate...

  Found dead? Homicide? GG had mentioned the evidence he found was gone. Never had she imagined it was because the guy was murdered.

  Abby’s head spun. His murder couldn’t possibly have to do with her grandmother...could it?

  With trembling fingers, Abby shut her laptop, unable to continue reading. A creeping sensation pricked her spine, but she tried her best to ignore it and, instead, focused on easing the anxiety swirling in her chest, stealing her breath.

  Lawson was a private investigator. He probably worked on hundreds of cases. Surely, he had a list of enemies. Nothing indicated his death had anything to do with their family secret, and sure, the guy’s card had been found in her grandmother’s car. But Abby had no concrete proof this Lawson guy was even the man she hired. She could’ve hired anyone.

  Right?

  So why did her grandmother have his card? And why did the timeline fit? If it was all a coincidence like she wanted to believe, why was there an invisible dagger twisting inside her stomach?

  Abby dropped her head into her hands. She wanted to believe Lawson’s death had nothing to do with this. Though she’d like to think this whole secret thing was some scavenger hunt from the grave to make her grief more bearable—a puzzle to solve or a distraction—deep down, she knew otherwise.

  Lawson was murdered, and Abby couldn’t shake the feeling it had to do with whatever her grandmother hired him to find, which meant he discovered something someone didn’t want him to know. And in order to keep him quiet, they killed him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  April 11, 1943

  I remember how the Krakow Ghetto woke before dawn. It was March14, nearly a month ago. Yet that life, the one in which I enjoyed the safety of my home, even in such tumultuous times, felt like a lifetime ago.

  Sometimes, at night, I still hear their voices—the Gestapo commanding, “All Jews outside. Hurry!”

  The streets filled. Men, women, and children all gathered together, the crowd so huge by ten o’clock we were sweating in the streets. Children cried for a drink of water. A couple of elderly men were clubbed for breaking rank. By noon, the sun was so hot on our backs, we were drenched in sweat and grew weary, our expressions—our spirits—growing grimmer by the minute.

  When the orders came to leave and the gates to the Ghetto opened, a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Along with my parents, and my two younger sisters, we walked with the mass of my people—cousins, neighbors, teachers, bakers, shop-owners, bookkeepers—out of the metal gates and in to the streets, down a road, and past a field where cattle cars waited.

  Gestapo gave orders to load the cars. Eighty-five people per car. We packed in like sardines, given little more than some bread and a few pails of water as they inspected the bars on the windows to ensure everything was properly sealed, that no one could escape. They informed us before closing the doors that if less than eighty-five were in the car upon arrival, one person in every car would be shot. Like a lottery, they would choose the lucky winner.

  The doors closed with an ominous thud, a piercing wail of the whistle, and off we went as the wheels ground into the tracks. Though we had been tired and hungry and scared, in those moments, most of us were simply relieved to be on our way. Rumors had circulated of work camps for months. Some tales were darker than others, but many of us denied such stories of camps where Jews were being slaughtered by the hundreds. Such horrors could not exist in such modern times. Could they?

  After two days, the heat in the cars became intolerable, stifling and reeking of body odor, urine, and excrement as people had no choice but to relieve themselves where they stood like caged animals. By the time the cars stopped two days in, we had run out of food and water long before. Hope soared. We prayed that we had finally reached our destination. Surely things would be better once we had.

  One of the men by the window strained to see outside. He described what he saw. Metal gates with high tensile fence and barbed wire, multiple buildings, and guards. Then he read the sign, “Auschwitz.”

  We were relieved. Some even cheered.

  How stupid we were. Or naive. Or both. We should’ve fought. We should’ve run as fast as our legs could carry us the moment they opened those doors, even if only to be shot...

  The ominous grinding of the door rumbled as light filtered in, blinding us. We were ordered outside. Men and boys to the left, women and children to the right. It wasn’t until then that we saw the smoke. It burned our nostrils as we lined up, stoking the fire of fear in our hearts.

  Off in the distance, SS. Officers stood guard, weapons poised, their message clear. If you try and run, you will be shot.

  I surveyed our surroundings, noting the row of guards surrounding a ditch with rising flames. Off in the distance, more smoke. Dark and thick, it curled from the long chimneys of a large brick building. The choking scent of burning flesh filled the air.

  Fear wrapped around me and squeezed as several Jewish prisoners dressed in baggy, shapeless clothes approached, yelling at us to move and separate as instructed.

  I glanced over at my mother and sisters as they shuffled to the right, along with the crowd. My mother’s tear-filled eyes met my father’s and an understanding, some unspoken truth, passed between them. She blew me a kiss—the best she could offer in our situation—then scurried into the throng of women with the girls. It was the last time I would see my mother and sisters. Her air-kiss, this simple sign of affection, was the last I would ever receive, and I would think about it and how I didn’t reciprocate for days and weeks to come.

  This memory would haunt me...

  THE MOMENT ABBY STEPPED inside the heavy double doors of Kennedy High, she wanted to turn back around again. Her lack of sleep over the weekend hadn’t helped clear the overwhelming fog from her brain. As she made her way to her locker on what felt more like cinder blocks than feet, she wondered how she’d get through an entire day. Her head was on another planet.

  She grabbed the books she needed for her first two periods. With a sharp thwack, she shut her locker door and pressed her forehead against the cold metal. Closing her eyes, she wished for bed. After her discovery of the private investigator’s death, she spent the better part of the evening scouring through pages of the journal. Even now, the presence of it beckoned her from within her backpack. Only a few entries away from finishing it, she had to find a clue of its relevancy in all this. The fact her grandfather spent time in Auschwitz was no secret. So, what answers could it possibly hold, other than serving as a distraction from her grief?

  Distraction or not, she wasn’t even sure the journal was helping. Sure, it kept her mind off GG’s physical absence, but she couldn’t help but feel herself falling down the rabbit hole of depression. The journal wasn’t exactly a light read. Ful
l of horrific stories, the appalling accounts of what the Jews went through wasn’t helping her already fragile state-of-mind. And the more she read, the more painful and difficult it became to wrap her head around the fact the author was her own grandfather—her flesh and blood—and not a work of fiction.

  Regardless, she’d finish it, then re-read it slowly if she had to. There had to be something she was missing. After all, GG said the answers were in the details, and with her level of exhaustion, she was lucky she could read at all, let alone find some sort of cryptic clues in the text.

  “Hello! Earth to Abby...”

  Abby opened her eyes and turned to face Cammie. “Hey,” she said, lifting her forehead from her locker.

  “Welcome back.” Cammie smiled at her, her raven hair shining under the harsh fluorescent light.

  Abby answered with a grunt and joined her as they walked to their first class.

  “You want to go to the baseball game tonight?” Cammie asked.

  “Um, I don’t think so. Not much of a baseball fan,” Abby said, distracted, her mind still on the journal.

  “Cute boys in tight pants. Biceps. Baseball caps. What’s not to like?”

  “I know. I just...” They paused as they reached their classroom, and Cammie moved in front of Abby, forcing her to finish.

  “What?” Cammie crossed her arms over her chest. “You can’t just stay home crying every night. You need to go out. Get some fresh air. Talk to boys and have fun. Come and get your mind off things,” she said, reaching out. “You hardly ever hang out with us.”

  Abby bit the inside of her cheek. Of course she thought she’d been sitting at home doing nothing but crying since Wednesday night. And she would’ve been, if it weren’t for GG’s letters.

  Abby sighed. “You sound like my mom.”

  “Well, the lady has a point.” Cammie grinned, then stepped aside as they entered their class. “Will you at least think about it?”

  Abby nodded and tried her best to look as though she might consider the offer, even though she knew deep down she’d do nothing of the sort. Not when the truth hung in the air in front of her like the proverbial dangling carrot. She could think of nothing else and knew if she went, she’d be no fun. Her mind would be preoccupied the entire night.