by Ellie Danes
“I really hope he isn’t an asshole,” I mumbled, just before a pain shot through my back and down to my hip.
“Damn,” I groaned, trying to stand up straight. I’d been hunched over, skimming over everything as thought after thought, memory after memory started to spin in my mind, like a wheel on crack.
I had no idea how long I’d actually been looking, but my back was telling me it had been longer than I’d thought.
I pulled my phone out and started taking photos; of what, I didn’t know.
I was just snapping away. At anything and everything I could think of. I knew that I might want them later, just in case I found anything of value.
I smirked because I felt like Sherlock Holmes as I skillfully maneuvered across the room like a ninja taking photos, although I had no reason to be sneaky. Except for the one singular time that I had walked out of the room, just to make sure to that Claire wasn’t up and wasn’t becoming suspicious.
She wouldn’t tell on me or anything, but I didn’t really want to put her in the position of lying either. I did a quick scan of the hall, with my back pressed firmly against the wall. I felt like a secret agent. I knew it was really just me snooping in my Dad’s things, and nothing really adventurous or incredible at all, but that didn’t stop my imagination from running wild.
I slid my body back into the office and shut the door quietly behind me before traipsing back over to the desk, where I sat back down on the comfortable armchair. I was surprised because when I did I felt immediately relieved of my back pain I was trying to ignore. It was getting hard to, though, because it was starting to shoot completely down to my hips.
“Ahhh,” I sighed, pressing my back more firmly into the soft leather.
I looked down, realizing that I was the worst investigator ever. I hadn’t even searched the desk sitting right in front of me. I laughed. “Well, shit, this was probably the first place I should have tried,” I whispered to myself.
On the outside, it looked like a typical CEO’s desk.
There weren’t any post-it notes, no shit ton of files and hand-written memos — all super old school style— laid in unorganized piles.
His desk looked like he barely ever worked. I knew that wasn’t true, but looking at his desk it certainly looked that way.
Just like with every other CEO, the grunt work was done by the employees. His desk was smooth as a baby’s bottom. There wasn’t anything on it except for a single black desk mat, a silver lamp, and a silver ink pen.
I sighed and opened the first drawer.
And then the next.
And then the next.
But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I was starting to get annoyed with how clean and organized everything was. I was also annoyed that I wasn’t finding anything. At all.
The first few drawers were just a couple of journals, almost identical to the ones on the shelf, and a few folders with nothing inside. And the last drawer, although a little different, just had a small plastic container of paper clips, and a damn stapler in it.
Nothing else.
But just as I was about to close it, something caught my eye. It looked shallower than the others, yet the outside actually looked larger than all the others. I scrunched my face, wondering what the hell kind of optical illusion it was.
But then I realized something was off.
I reached down and into the back of the drawer, feeling something soft, like a small tag, poke out in the back. Immediately, my heart began to pound heavily against my chest. I was excited. I was intrigued. I was also confused.
I pulled on the tag, and realized it was actually a tab attached to the back bottom of the drawer. Not only that, when I tugged on it, the bottom of the drawer came up an inch or two.
A false bottom.
The drawer had a false bottom!
“What kind of CIA shit is this?” I whispered under my breath as I pulled it up and away.
I was absolutely speechless as I bent down and gazed — in complete disbelief — at all the stuff actually inside the drawer. “Shit,” I whispered, amazed, before standing back up straight again.
I didn’t know if I actually wanted to touch the stuff.
What if it was something illegal?
I shut my eyes. “Calm down, Kate,” I repeated over and over to myself as I pinched the bridge of my nose, nervous as all hell.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants.
I took a deep breath and finally bent down and reached for the stuff, sifting through whatever it was that was in there.
I moved down onto my knees so that I could see everything more clearly when something hit me. A scent. It smelled almost perfume-y. Flowery and sweet.
I inhaled it, deeply, wondering what it was and why it smelled so familiar.
I glanced over my shoulder, wondering when he’d be home and how long I’d been in his office snooping around. I wondered if he’d hear me rummaging through his things; if he would hear me shuffling through drawers and papers; if he would come in and see me looking through his secret drawer.
I sighed, morally confused as to where to go from here.
And honestly even a little scared of what would happen if he found me in there snooping for “the enemy” as he’d put it.
I wondered if I could pull it off like I was looking for something irrelevant and silly. A permanent marker or something.
At the wee hours of the morning.
I rolled my eyes. Yeah, sure. He would totally believe that.
I growled and looked back down and into the drawer. I had to do something. I couldn’t just stay there, looking in the drawer, down on my knees and wait for him to come home.
I had to get my ass in gear.
I fingered the packet of what looked like letters, and they were tied with a red silk ribbon. What kind of secretive person actually had a false bottom in a drawer? Especially in their own home office. I mean, really! It was like he worked for the CIA or something.
They looked almost like love letters, and I noticed my mom’s name right away. I was just about to put them back, when I realized that the hand-writing wasn’t my dad’s — and then, when I flipped through to a few in the back of the stack, I saw the return address, and I noticed I was right.
John.
John Cross.
To my mother.
And then it hit me: that’s what the smell was.
It was perfume! Her perfume. I closed my eyes, taking the scent, suddenly missing it.
Before I could even think much more about it, I pulled the ribbon to loosen it, eager all of a sudden, and watched as the red silk bow fall to the floor. I could only hope I could re-tie it the same. I never was good at tying a bow, but I wanted to look at the letters. They looked way more suspect than just having a few letters. They weren’t just any old letters. And not only that, they looked like they were love letters to my mom from another man. So why in the hell did Dad have them?
They were from John. Which was the whole reason I was in Dad’s office in the first place.
I struggled to pull the letters out of their envelopes, trying my best not to crinkle them. They looked old — not decrepitly so, but definitely old enough that I wanted to be careful not to damage them. Some of them looked a bit fragile.
My eyes scanned over the words as I unfolded the first letter. And then the next, and then the next.
I read them. All of them.
They were letters of John confessing his love for my mom, and not only that, letters of heartache. He wrote how much it hurt when she broke his heart and broke off their engagement. The words were tormented.
My eyes were wide, surprised with each passing line. I didn’t know that John and my mom were ever engaged — let alone that she called it off and broke his heart.
The words even made it sound like they were engaged for a while. And that it was only in the eleventh hour, just before they were supposed to actually go through with it, that she called it off.
My father.
But that wasn’t even the most incredible one I read. The next stood out to me even more than that. Mainly because, to me, it was a lot worse. Not worse written. But the attitude, more than anything. It wasn’t just filled with pain like the first few. It was filled with heartbreak and sadness, but there was a whole lot more angst and anger this time.
Dear Jean,
You probably won’t read this letter, and even if you do, I doubt you’ll respond. That’s fine. I don't expect you to, and I’m not sure I really even want you to.
I know that I’m probably about to make a fool of myself with all of this. Probably for the fifth or sixth time now, but I don’t care.
I still hate you for what you did to me. To us.
Didn’t we always promise each other that we would be honest? Didn’t we always say that if one of us weren’t happy, we’d let the other know?
Do you remember that night? The night we made the promise?
Because I remember it well.
I remember it almost like it was yesterday.
It was raining. We had just left that little jazz spot we both really loved and we only had one umbrella. It was yours, pink with white polka dots, and you offered it to me.
Not because of any other reason but the fact that you loved the rain and I didn’t. You were so beautiful that evening. Even completely soaked from the rain.
And when we got back to my place, the heater didn’t work and you were cold all night. Even cuddled up in a warm blanket, with my body against yours. I couldn’t help but laugh at you and think how perfect you were in your complete imperfection.
You were always reckless. And I loved that about you. You were so free.
I remember you pushing me against the wall and giving me the best kiss of my life.
I still, to this day, remember the taste of your lips. French coffee mixed with the bourbon we’d had earlier that night. And your scent. My God.
That scent of yours has always driven me crazy. It was like flowers and candy melted together. It had always tingled my senses and intoxicated me every time I smelled it.
I still remember the way your body felt against me that night. I still long for it even though I’m so hurt and angered by what you’ve done
We could have talked about it. And even if you weren’t happy, you could have told me before running off like a fucking thief in the night to be with my piece of shit supposed best friend.
When you left, I didn’t want to admit that I’d never feel your body again. But I knew, and I still know deep down. That’s why these letters are fucking pointless in reality.
You always did what you wanted to do, whenever you wanted to do it, and damn everyone else, especially if they stood in your way.
I knew deep down you walking away meant I’d never have you again.
I think that is what hurts the most.
I was miserable that night. The night you left. And I’ve been miserable ever since.
I hate what you have done. I hate what you made me. I mean, here I am, reduced to a babbling emotional idiot. I was perfectly content never loving, and then you swooped in and stole my heart.
I just can’t believe how big of a bitch you were, and I can’t believe how stupid I was. I can’t believe I ever thought you could love me back.
This has all completely whacked me into oblivion and I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever be fine again. And that’s all your fault. Yours and that good for nothing bastard that once called himself my friend.
You both should rot in hell for what you did to me.
But I still can’t wish that on you.
I was wrong about a lot of things, but I really don’t think I was wrong about us.
I felt like I failed you when you left, and I blamed myself for you leaving at first.
But this is your fault.
I hate being pathetic. I hate going insane thinking about you every day. I am hoping that this letter provides some sort of relief. I hope that writing it gets it all out in the open, and I can finally let myself heal.
Because it’s getting harder and harder to hide how I feel at work. Honestly, the grief from it all is numbing me to anything potentially good about the day, and I’m becoming more and more of an ass to the people around me. I feel it. I feel their hatred for me growing. And the worst part is, is I don’t give a damn.
In fact, I like it better that way.
At least then I won’t have anyone else disappointing me like you have.
You should have stayed, Jean. You made the biggest mistake of your life not staying, and I hope one day you’ll know that. Because he will never love you as much as I did and do.
I feel like you stole precious time that I could have used doing so much more.
I still can’t believe you walked away from all of this. For Michael! Fucking Michael!
I wanted nothing more than to sleep with my arms wrapped around you, sharing body heat, breathing in your scent, and awaking to you and your beauty every morning as the sun seeped through the window. Every day. For the rest of our lives. I was prepared for that. I was prepared to do that for you.
And that made me want to hate you. I thought that hating you would help. But it didn’t. I realized that I could always hate what you did, but I could never hate you.
I never did.
I never will.
I can't deny what I feel for you. It's like breathing
I just know that I’ll never cease to love you. To care for you. I've been mad at you. So fucking mad. I’ve hated everything you’ve done but all the while, I know that I can’t hate you.
I love you. I hate it, but I’m so in fucking love with you, Jean. I fucking love you. Always have. Always will. I’ll never know. But I’ll still care. Goddammit, I hate it, but I’ll still care.
I feel pathetic as fuck writing this out to you, but I know if I don’t, I’ll regret it.
I used to think I had a soul full of ice, and that I didn’t need love. But you came in, with your damn wonderful charm and seductive smile and beauty and you warmed me up. You made me feel like life was more than the take-it-by-the-horn day-in-day-out work-your-ass-off lifestyle I’d been living.
You were the first and only woman I’ve ever loved.
I wish now I never had.
Unfortunately forever and always,
John.
My hand was trembling when I’d reached the bottom of the last page of the letter. That was the longest one in the pile. The thickest envelope. And now I knew why. It was a rambling fit of emotions. A lot of emotions. A sob escaped me. Then another. Then another. I felt bad for him. I felt bad for the relationship that he thought they had. My mom was good at leaving. It was definitely her method of operation.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he did, indeed, steal the technology that Ian was talking about and then sue my dad for the theft, just to get back at him for stealing my mom away. I knew it sounded silly when I thought about it in my head, but still, a part of me couldn’t help but wonder.
The next few letters were definitely angered. A lot more than this. The more I read on, the less he talked about how much he loved her and the more he seemed angry.
I flipped through even more letters, each seriously angrier than the last.
That is, until I reached a letter — the last one in the pile — that didn’t seem angry at all.
“I got married and I have a son,” it read. “I was finally able to find some peace, and I forgive you for leaving me the way that you did.”
I smiled. Especially when I read the line: “They’re seriously everything to me.”
I was basically beaming as I read those words, because Ian was now everything to me. It was strange how quickly it happened, but it did. He meant so much; and it meant so much to me to read that his dad loved him so much.
Through the blurriness of my sight from the tears that were starting to fall, I
felt an envelope of a different size, separate from the others. It was most definitely a different envelope and there was different handwriting on the front.
I examined it, flipping it around and glancing at all the wording. Instead of John’s chicken-scratch handwriting, it was writing that was a lot more flowing and feminine looking. It was also really familiar. Without even looking at the name, I already knew who the letter was from.
My mom.
And it was addressed to my Dad. I didn’t read it. Not yet. Something else caught my attention first. Something at the bottom of the drawer that I hadn’t noticed before.
It was something that was below all of the letters.
A larger document. Un-enveloped.
I squinted my eyes and squatted down to gaze onto it a little better.
It was old, browned from dirt and folded at the corners. It was flimsy and dated almost 30 years before. My eyes were strained from sleepiness as I scanned over the paper. I had to read each line to fully make sense of it — well partially make sense of it, since it was full of medical jargon mumbo-jumbo — but I read enough to process one thing.
It was about the technology from the lawsuit.
A patent application. And not only a patent application — but a patent application that had never even been sent.
And the kicker: both John and Dad’s name were on the document. I didn’t even bother snapping a photo of the document. Instead, I grabbed the whole thing, folded it up and stuck it in my pocket before I tried to put everything else back in its place.
Chapter 20
Ian
I was at home. It was late, and I was waiting for Kate as I sat alone in my living room.
She was supposed to be there soon, but I couldn’t calm down long enough to be happy about it. I was troubled, to be perfectly honest. Troubled beyond belief at what Amelia had said.
I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what the evidence was. What the hell did BioResearch have that I didn’t know about?
I didn’t know who to ask. I didn’t know who would tell me. If anyone.
Amelia sure as hell hadn’t been any help, and I knew Ben wouldn’t help me. The only way I’d ever find out, I ventured to guess, was if it came out during a court-appointed meeting.
