by S M Broad
The Road to Finding Me
SM Broad
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Road to Finding Me
Copyright 2018 SM Broad
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Emily Wittig at Emily Wittig Designs and Photography
Edited by Jenn Wood at All About the Edits
Interior Formatting—T.E. Black Designs; www.teblackdesigns.com
To those who believed in me and have supported me from day one of my journey.
This is for you.
Prologue
The clock on my cable box reads 12:45 a.m.
“What the hell have I done?” I cry to the empty room.
Staring out the window at the dark, rainy May night, I contemplate how my life had come to this. This can't be happening. What started out as my happily-ever-after had turned into every woman’s nightmare.
Over our three years together, Brant had turned into a despicable man, but did he really deserve to die? I feel the throb from my split lip and pain radiates in my eye where he backhanded me. I glance down at my torn shirt and sleep shorts, then at the bloody knife in my hand. Brant’s body sits, slumped over, on the kitchen floor. I begin to hyperventilate, sucking in breath after breath, but it’s no use. I can’t pull the oxygen far enough into my lungs to calm myself.
I need to call the cops, they’ll help me. They have to help me. It was self-defense; he attacked me. Kill or be killed.
That’s the way it was, right?
Dropping the knife where I stand, it lands on the floor with a clatter. I stare at my bloodstained hands in horror before wiping them over and over on my pink cotton shirt, ridding my skin of the red color. I back into the living room to search for my phone, inhaling a breath so deep I feel it in my toes.
Then I dial.
Chapter One
“911, what is your emergency?” a cool female voice answers.
“I-I need the police. My boyfriend just attacked me, and I stabbed him. I think he’s dead,” I reply as calmly as I can manage, tears stinging my eyes.
“Okay, miss. What is your location?” the voice on the other line says cautiously.
“1245 West Eaglette Road, Apartment Eight.”
“Help is on the way, miss. Would you like me to stay on the line with you until they get there?”
“No,” I whisper, before hanging up and dropping the phone to the floor.
After what feels like an eternity, but is most likely only minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. Jumping up from where I’m huddled on the couch, I sprint toward the sound and rip open the front door to find two uniformed officers standing there, eyes wide, as they take me in from head to toe.
“He attacked me. I didn’t know what else to do. H-he would have killed me. I had to save myself, I had to.” I ramble so fast, I run out of breath, sagging against the wall.
“Ma’am…I’m Officer Westin.” He motions to the man standing next to him and continues, “This is my partner, Officer Holland. Dispatch received a call from this address.”
I run my gaze over the two of them, looking pristine and put together, just like my dad used to when he was getting ready for work in the morning. I remember him standing at the mirror by the front door, straightening his badge and belt, then he’d throw me a wink and a smile when he caught me watching him. A throat clearing brings me back to focus.
“Mind if we come in? Branch, why don’t you look for the victim?” Officer Holland tells a third officer I didn’t notice standing behind them.
I numbly turn and head back to the couch, wrapping the huge, fuzzy blanket I got last year for Christmas from my best friend since fifth grade, Leila, around me. Officers Westin, Holland, and Branch follow me into the apartment and as the first two sit on my loveseat, Branch takes out flashlight and his gun, and begins to scan the house.
“Brant Isaac, that’s his name. He’s in the kitchen,” I mumble, so low I’m sure he doesn’t hear me.
His head whips around to stare at me before he peeks around the doorframe, where Brant sits in a pool of his own blood.
“Miss, what exactly happ-” Officer Holland begins to say, but I quickly cut him off.
“Brant was supposed to come over after work, so we could eat dinner, like always, but he was late. I waited for almost three hours and was putting away the food when he stormed through the door and cornered me.” I sniffle as tears find their way to my eyes again. “I didn’t know what to do. He reeked like beer and scotch,” I say, remembering just thirty minutes before, when my life collapsed.
Officer Branch decides to rejoin us at that minute, reaching for his radio as he eyes me suspiciously.
“Dispatch, this is Officer Branch, Unit 225, with Westin and Holland. We’ve got a 187 at 1245 West Eaglette Road, Apartment Eight. We need a medic and backup immediately,” and the radio crackles back a fuzzy response.
Code 187. A murder. Officers Westin and Holland shoot up from their seats, rushing to the kitchen while Branch sinks to eye level, meeting my downcast gaze.
“Miss…?” His firm, questioning voice brings my eyes to his. I know what he wants—my last name. I don’t know if I can disgrace my father's name that way, but I know I have to; it’s protocol.
“Aayla Erics. Scott was my dad.”
The look on his face tells me I didn’t even need to add the last part; just hearing my name, he knew who I was.
Who my dad was.
Captain Scott Erics was a legend on the Dothan Police Department, the best in his graduating academy class, killed while on duty, when I was ten years old. Just the thought of him rockets me back to that stormy April night.
Chapter Two
Past
I’ve wondered a lot why my mom didn’t want to stay with my dad and me, but he’s always been my very best friend. As long as I can remember, it’s just been the two of us, and that’s okay with me.
“That was the best football game ever, Dad!” I yell excitedly when he steps through the door after his phone call. Last weekend, as an early birthday present, Dad and I took a trip to North Carolina to watch a professional football game. We ate hot dogs, had big cups of soda, and I even got my very own cotton candy on a stick.
I can hear Masie, my babysitter, laughing from the kitchen in our
big home as she puts down her night bag. Dad told me, when he picked me up earlier from school, that he had to work a night shift, so Masie is staying with me for a sleepover.
He scoops me up in a big bear hug and swings me around while I giggle.
“It’s all she’s been talking about all week, Scott. It’s nice that you did that with her.”
He tickles my belly and laughs along with us. “Nothing is too good for my Baby Bear.”
He checks his watch as he sets me down on the counter next to Masie, then looks out the window at the storm rolling in.
“Well, girls”—he sighs—“I gotta get going before the storm hits. I’ll be back in the morning.”
Masie gives him a smile as I hold out my arms for one more hug before he leaves.
“Love you, Daddy Bear,” I whisper into his shirt, squeezing him around the middle. I never want him to go to work, but I know he needs to, so we can have our Friday pizza and movie nights.
“Love you, Baby Bear.” He returns my whisper and hugs me back, just as hard. Turning toward the front door, he grabs his jacket off the kitchen chair and slings it on as he walks out the door.
After Dad leaves, Masie makes spaghetti for dinner and we have ice cream sundaes for dessert. Then she paints my nails and after my bath, braids my hair. While we’re watching my favorite movie, The Little Mermaid, there’s a knock at the door. I know it’s late, almost time for bed, so I get a little scared and cover up with my Ariel blanket.
“Stay here, cupcake.” Masie gives me a little smile and gets up from her seat beside me. As soon as she’s out of sight, I tiptoe after her and peek around the corner. As the door creaks open, I see my dad’s friends. They’ve always been Uncle Milo and Uncle Kyle to me. They have sad looks on their faces as they remove their hats that have rain dripping off them.
“Are you Masie Ryson?” Uncle Kyle asks.
I see her nod, but there’s something wrong, I can feel it. Something happened to my daddy. As Masie moves to the side to let them in, Uncle Milo sees me hiding and turns to face me.
“Hey, Monster.” He drops down, so I can see his face better, and holds out his arms for me. I run and crash so hard into his chest that it knocks him flat to the floor.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Milo? Where’s my daddy?” I say quietly, rubbing my eyes.
He looks at Uncle Kyle and nods toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you take Masie in the other room while I talk to Aayla.”
Uncle Kyle puts his hand on Masie’s back and they walk past us to the kitchen.
“Listen, Monster. Your daddy was out tonight on a call, and there was…” His voice fades out as I hear Masie cry out from the kitchen.
“Oh no!”
I don’t wait to hear anything else. I wiggle out from Uncle Milo’s hold and run to the kitchen but stop when I see Uncle Kyle hugging Masie. Her shoulders are shaking and she’s crying.
“He was out in his patrol car when a call came in for a suspect on the run. He pursued over Carlo Bridge when he hydroplaned and went through the barrier, into the river...” His voice cracks as he tries to hide the tears falling onto his cheeks.
“I want my daddy!” I scream until my throat hurts, but I already know what this means.
I’ll never see my daddy again. No more football games, no more tea parties, no more Pizza Fridays.
My daddy is gone.
Chapter Three
Present
The sound of sirens snaps me back to the present and I remember what I’ve done.
“Miss Erics? Miss Erics?” Officer Branch gently shakes my shoulder as the fog from my flashback fades. I look up into his soft eyes and offer the most pitiful smile I can muster.
“Could you continue where you left off with Mr. Isaac?” he adds, sitting down next to me with a notepad in his hand.
My body jerks at Brant’s last name and I shudder, trying to cover myself and my torn clothes.
“He was drunk, swaying back and forth, mumbling about how he should have ended me a long time ago.” I choke back the bile rising in my throat and try to finish. “He…uh, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the living room, towards my bedroom. I tried to get away and he snatched my shirt and tore it.” I point at my ripped shirt, stained with blood, and clear my throat. “He…he pushed me down on the floor and tried to take my shorts off, and when I told him to stop…he hit me.” I flinch at the memory of his powerful fist.
“Had he ever struck you before?” he asks with curiosity.
“No. He'd threatened me a couple of times but never acted on it,” I whisper, my timid voice trailing off into silence. "I was still too scared to tell anyone, to leave. He told me if I ever said anything, they wouldn't believe me." I cough, shivering from the chill that settles over me.
He nods as he jots something down and, after a few minutes of silence, he continues with his questions.
“Then what happened?” he asks, furiously writing in his pad.
“He let go. Then I got up and ran to the kitchen.” I hiccup back a sob that's building. “He ran after me, yelling, ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch!’” My voice breaks at the memory of Brant’s angry screams and more tears well in my eyes, the room blurring as they break free.
He stops writing and looks up at me. “Were those the actual words he used?” he questions, like I could be lying.
It’s possible I could be, but I’m not. I don’t know how else to convey that it was my life, or his. It’s my word against a dead man, and all I can manage is a solemn nod.
“I picked up a knife that was laying on the counter and told him to leave or I was calling the cops, but he just laughed and charged me. I didn’t know what else to do. I knew if I didn’t stop him, protect myself, he would have killed me,” I say without feeling, and I look up when I’m met with Officer Branch’s silence. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t want to die,” I finish, talking to nobody in particular.
I shouldn’t feel this guilty. I would never have hurt him if he didn’t threaten to kill me. As I think about the situation, his parents, Laurel and Bryce, cross my mind. They will never see their son again because of me. They’ll never spend another birthday or Christmas together because he’s dead. I killed him. My mind swims.
I’m a murderer.
I’m off the couch before I even know it. I’m moving and blindly, headed to the bathroom, with Officer Branch hot on my heels. I trip over my own feet and barely make it to the toilet before my dinner comes back up, along with my conscience and all the shame my father would be feeling toward me right now. When there’s nothing left in my stomach, I sit back and put my head against the wall.
I hear the front door open and shut a few times, then faint voices asking questions and shuffling around before I find the strength to stand up and rinse the vomit from my mouth. I push past Officer Branch, headed back into the living room that is now littered with other officers. They’re taking pictures of all the things that got broken in my struggle with Brant.
“We’re going to need photographic evidence of your wounds and clothes, Miss Erics,” Officer Westin says to me when he approaches from the kitchen. As I pass the doorway on the way to the couch, I notice that Brant is gone. I freeze and look around frantically, like he might pop out from behind my curtains to finish what he started.
“We removed him,” Officer Holland reassures me when he notices my shakiness.
“Let’s wrap this up, fellas. This young lady needs some rest. If we could get some photos of you, we’ll get out of your way for the night. Is there anyone you can call to be with you tonight?”
I shuffle to where the photographer is standing and look up into the light, so she can get pictures of my face and chest.
“My friend, Leila. She’s the only person I’ve got left,” I answer slowly.
I need this to be over. I just want to go back to the day I ran into Brant at the coffee shop, and walk away. I wish, more than anything, that I'd never met him, that my life was different. Twenty min
utes and countless camera flashes later, everyone is walking out my door. Officer Westin hands me a card with his information on it.
“If you remember anything else, call me,” he says, as he surveys my apartment one last time before nodding at me. I shake my head as I close the door, then slide down to the floor.
Finally alone again, I avoid the kitchen, pick up my phone from beside the couch, and head back to the bathroom. Placing my hands on either side of the sink, I chance a look at myself in the mirror and immediately regret it.
My brown eyes are bloodshot from crying, my medium-length, auburn hair sticks up everywhere from my messy bun, there’s dried blood on my lip, and a bruise already forming around my swollen eye. Bloody, smudged scratches track my chest where he ripped my shirt. I look awful, and I suddenly feel the need to shower, to rid myself of the memory of what almost happened.
Releasing the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I try to see through my bleary, tear-filled eyes as I search for Lei’s number. Pressing send, I wait for her to answer.
“Mmm ’ello?” Her groggy, sleepy grumble comes through the phone.
“Lei,” I whisper.
“Aayla??” She’s now wide awake, and her frantic voice searches the line.
“I need you,” I sob, as my phone drops from my hand and hits the floor.
