One Family

by Smyth, R. A

  “Did Greta say anything more about what happened?” Preston asks, referring to my housekeeper. He probably knows her better than either of my parents. Hell, I probably do too. She’s the one that answered the door every time Preston came over. She would make us snacks after school and made sure I had breakfast and dinner every day, as well as money to buy lunches when I was a kid.

  She was completely hysterical on the phone. I’m sure seeing the dead body of your employer isn’t a brilliant start to your day, but jeez, she sounded like she’d found him hacked to pieces with his blood all over the room.

  “No, I could hardly get anything out of her. She was in a state.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  I just shake my head. I’ve no idea. “Could it have been Kirk?” I ask, thinking out loud. Who else could it have been? Unless my father is caught up in other illegal activities as well, although I wouldn’t put it past him at this point.

  “That’s what I was wondering,” he agrees. “The timing is too coincidental. I just can’t work out why Kirk would kill him. Doesn’t he need your dad’s connections in the legal system? And why would he agree to give Sophie to him if he was then going to kill him? None of it makes any sense. Plus, I didn’t think he would leave your dad’s body lying around for just anyone to find.”

  He’s got a point there, but I can’t think who else would want to see him dead.

  Pushing the buttons on my steering wheel, I bring up my mom’s phone number and press to connect the call. She probably won’t care, but she needs to know, and I don’t want to be left to deal with this shit. She’s still his wife, so she should be here dealing with the lawyers, organising a wake and doing whatever else needs done.

  The phone rings and rings, the noise echoing around the car, until it goes to voicemail. Hanging up, I dial again. Every time it rings out I get more and more frustrated, until, after the fifth or sixth call, Preston snaps and grabs my phone from the centre console, disconnecting it from the bluetooth. “She’s not answering man. She’s probably busy, or sleeping. She’ll call you back later.”

  My hands clench around the wheel. I know he’s right, but I don’t want to deal with all of this, dammit. I shouldn’t have to. I want nothing to do with that sack of shit, and now I’m going to have to go home and act like the sad, loving son. And the fucking police are going to be crawling all over this, asking questions. How the fuck is that even going to work with all the fucking secrets I have?

  All too soon we pull up at the house. There are no police cars in the drive, so I’m guessing I’ve beaten them here. That’s probably for the best, it will give me a bit more time to get my shit together. Taking a final deep breath, I climb out of the car, Preston falling in line beside me as I head for the front door.

  “Greta,” I call out when we step into the foyer. I needn’t have bothered though as she immediately jumps up from where she was sitting in the parlour, rushing towards me. She looks as bad as she sounded on the phone. Tears streaming down her pale face, her hair half pulled out of its usually neat bun.

  “Barrett,” she stutters out between cries. “Thank god you’re here. He’s upstairs, in his room, but it...it’s, oh god, Barrett, it’s awful.” She falls apart, collapsing into my arms. It’s obvious we won’t get any more from her.

  Patting her awkwardly, Preston directs her back to where she was sitting when we arrived. “We’ll go have a look and sort it out Greta, you just sit here, okay?” She doesn’t even respond to him, still bent over as she cries huge sobbing tears. I’m surprised to see her so upset. Perhaps it’s the shock of seeing a dead body.

  Preston walks back towards me in the foyer with a similar ‘what the fuck’ expression on his face. I can’t do anything but shrug in confusion, not having any more of a clue than he does as to what is going on.

  Casting my gaze up the wide central staircase, I sigh heavily. There’s no point in putting it off any longer. With that in mind, we make our way up the stairs, heading towards my parent’s suite.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the scene that greets us as we step into the room. Greta’s behaviour suddenly makes sense as I stand inside my father’s bedroom, taking in the blood-soaked walls and floor. The cream bed covers now stained red. It’s a bloodbath. My father wasn’t just murdered, he was torn to pieces.

  My feet refuse to move any closer to the bed, freezing me in place at the doorway as my eyes roam over every inch of the blood drenched room. Preston stands beside me, with a similar look of shock on his face. This is so far from what we expected to find. When Greta told me he’d been murdered, I thought maybe he’d been shot or stabbed or strangled even, not fucking eviscerated.

  Preston moves towards the bed, but I don’t follow him, instead watching him from where I’m still frozen in place. His face is scrunched up in disgust as he stands over my father, slowly roaming his eyes over what I imagine is a pretty macabre sight. Something must catch his eye as he bends over the body to get a closer look. I don’t know how he does it; the smell is enough to make me gag from here, nevermind if I was right up at the body. The smell of blood hangs heavy in the air, that tangy metallic smell that embeds itself in your nostrils. Combined with the first stages of decomposition, it’s not a pleasant aroma.

  Standing up straight again, he looks around the bed, then around the rest of the room. I’ve no idea what he could be looking for. “Man, what the fuck are you doing? Can we get out of here now? He’s definitely dead, and it stinks in here.” I should probably be more caring of the fact my dad is lying dead, having clearly died in a violent and rotten way, but those feelings I keep expecting to creep up on me never appear. Instead, I’m almost glad he died the way he did. He deserves it for all the pain and misery he caused those innocent girls, for the fucked up shit he would have done to Sophie if he got his hands on her. Fuck, if I met the sicko that did this to him, I’d probably buy him a drink and thank him.

  “I think—” Preston begins before cutting himself off, spotting something of interest on the floor a few feet away from him and moving over to get a closer look. “Jesus, he cut out his tongue,” Preston exclaims, looking at what I can only imagine is my father’s tongue. Fucking gross. My breakfast is going to make a fucking reappearance if I have to stay in this room much longer. “And I think he cut off his dick as well.”

  Aaaand I’ve reached my limit for how much gruesome I can take in a day. Turning on my heel, I storm out of the room, not stopping until I’m back in my childhood bedroom. I’m not sure why I came here, I haven’t stepped foot in this room since I moved out to the pool house. It looks exactly as it did when I was a kid, with its dark blue walls and my bed covers with sports cars on them. Several bookshelves are overflowing with awards, from when I entered any and every competition and took part in every sporting event, hoping to garner my parents’ attention. It never worked though, and by the time I moved out, I’d given up and discovered girls. The trophies are all still sitting there though, serving as a long forgotten reminder of the kid I used to be.

  I’ve fallen a long way from that overachieving kid. When awards and accolades didn’t have the desired effect, I tried doing the opposite, thinking perhaps repeated detentions and suspensions and low grades would do the trick. When that didn’t work, it escalated to drinking, drunk and disorderlies and shoplifting. After ending up in Crescentwood jail for the third time and Preston having to come bail me out—for the third time—I gave up. I finally realized it didn’t matter what I did, I would never get the attention from my parents that I wanted, so I eventually settled into a happy medium, going through the paces until I could get out of this hellhole. Until a feisty brunette with a sarcastic attitude, fuckable body and the cutest way of talking I’ve ever heard, blew through the doors of CWP and completely changed my world.

  Thinking of her brings back the guilt over my behavior this morning. I shouldn’t have done that to her. I don’t even know why I did. I was in shock, and I didn’t know what to
think, or what I wanted. I worried that if I let her touch me, all of the emotions I was supposed to be feeling when one finds out their dad is dead, would hit me and I’d fall apart. I know now that that was a fucking stupid thought, but it was all I could think of at the time and I didn’t want her comforting me. She shouldn’t need to console me after what my dad has said and done to her, what he almost did to her.

  She should be relieved he’s dead, but I knew if she thought I was upset that she would put aside her own feelings and be there for me. I didn’t want that, so I was an idiot and gave her the cold shoulder and got out of there as fast as I could.

  Now I’ve probably gone and fucked up our relationship already. What an excellent start. I’m absolutely shit at this whole boyfriend thing.

  Not needing to drown in self-hate right now, I go back to taking in my room. I bet no one but Greta has been in here since I left. She’s clearly been keeping it clean as there isn’t a speck of dust on any of the surfaces.

  I’m not alone in the room for long before Preston silently enters, closing the door quietly behind himself.

  “You okay, man?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh wearily. I am okay. I just didn’t need the visual of my dad with no tongue or dick. “He got what he deserved.”

  “He did,” Preston agrees with conviction. “Doesn’t mean you have to be okay with the fact he’s dead though, or the way he died. I know you, man, I know you wanted a better relationship with your dad. We’ve learned a lot of bad shit about him recently but you can still grieve for the relationship you hoped to one day have with him.”

  I laugh, an empty caustic laugh. “That’s just it, though. I’m not upset, I’m not grieving. I’m fucking delighted he’s dead. He’s not the guy I thought he was and I should never have wanted his praise or respect. It’s become blatantly obvious in the last few months that he was never going to be who I wanted him to be. Honestly, I’m glad I’ve had my eyes opened to who he really was. I’m relieved his death is one less threat against Sophie that we need to worry about. I’m fucking ecstatic I won’t have to go to another shitty holiday dinner with him and watch him leering at her, making suggestive comments, and not be able to rip his fucking head off myself.

  “He was a sick, vile monster. He would have broken Sophie if he got his hands on her. Someone else just saved us the trouble of killing him ourselves, because that’s the only way he was ever going to leave our girl in peace.”

  “Alright then,” Preston says after assessing me for a long moment, giving me a nod of his head. “I phoned Aiden before I came to find you,” he says, moving on. This is why our friendship works so seamlessly. He doesn’t push or ask questions. He asked what was wrong, I told him, and now we move forward. We don’t need to discuss in depth how fucking clueless I’ve been my entire life, how naïve I’ve been about my dad. We don’t even need to discuss the horror movie scene we just saw in the bedroom. We just need to move forward and deal with it. “I told him what we found, and I took some photos and sent them to him. I also heard the police arriving...we should probably go talk to them.”

  Right, the police. Fuck me. What are we meant to say? “You don’t need to say anything,” Preston assures me, intuitively knowing where my thoughts are at. “We were hanging out last night. You weren’t here, you didn’t know what happened until Greta called you this morning. Don’t mention The Citadel, or Kirk, or The Feral Beasts. None of it.”

  I nod my head, letting him know I understand. He looks at me for a moment longer, seeing for himself that I’m okay, that I’ve got my shit together now. I feel a lot better for letting out all that hate and disappointment, like I’ve finally let go of that old version of myself who wanted his parents to love him, to support him and take an interest in him. I finally accept the shithead of a father I was given. Now that I see him for who he really was, I can let go of every naïve notion I had of him. My parents and I? We weren’t a family. What I have with Sophie and Preston, and—I can’t believe I’m even thinking it—Aiden and Ty? That has the potential to be a family. A real family who love and care about one another. They are the family I’m willing to fight for, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure we all survive.

  I leave my childhood bedroom, probably for the last time. This isn’t my home, I don’t belong here and I never have. Making my way down the hall, back towards the landing, I can hear voices coming from the foyer below.

  Reaching the top of the stairs. I can see Greta standing in the foyer, with her back to me, and two male police officers standing in front of her. The police officers look up when we arrive and Greta turns to see what has their attention. I’m glad to see she looks more put together than when we first arrived.

  “Barrett, dear,” Greta says as I make my way down the stairs, Preston following behind me. “These are detectives Decker and Frost.” She introduces, gesturing first to the older man on the left, then his younger partner beside him. “Detectives, this is Mr. Belmont, and Mr. Donaghue.”

  Detective Decker is probably in his mid-fifties, tall, around my height, dark hair streaked with grey and a bit of a beer belly. He’s got a serious face and penetrating eyes that haven’t left me since I drew their attention. I reach out and shake hands with him, before doing the same to Detective Frost.

  He’s young, like really young, probably only a few years older than me. He’s got an athletic build and blonde hair shaved close to his head in a buzz cut. Where his partner’s eyes have been astutely assessing me, his have been bouncing all over the room, taking in the sickening wealth surrounding him.

  “Greta was just telling us what happened this morning. You weren’t here, is that correct?” Detective Decker inquires.

  “Yes, that’s right. I was staying with Preston last night.” The detective moves to look at Preston, who nods his head in agreement. “Yeah, he was with me all night.”

  “And what were you two up to last night?”

  “We just stayed in and chilled, played some video games,” I respond vaguely, shrugging my shoulders.

  “On a Saturday night?” He asks skeptically. “You didn’t have any parties to hit up or friends to hang out with?”

  “We were at a party last weekend, so we decided to just chill,” Preston explains. I’m already getting annoyed with these questions and insinuations.

  Detective Decker gives both of us a hard look before nodding his head, seeming satisfied. “I understand you live in the pool house? Why is that?”

  “I moved out there when I was fifteen. I wanted my own space, and it was easier to have friends over and to come and go as I please without bothering my parents.”

  “Okay,” he agrees, not quite believing me, but letting it go and moving on with his questions. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt your father or see him dead?”

  I shake my head. “I have no idea. He was well respected within the community. No one spoke ill of him or had any sorts of issues with him, that I’m aware of. I don’t know much about his work life though, so I can’t help you there.”

  “That’s fine, we will be talking with his colleagues and business associates, and going through all of his open and closed cases in due course. I understand no one has been able to reach your mother?”

  “Uh, yeah. She’s in France at the minute. I’m sure she will get in touch when she gets our messages though,” I say, not entirely convinced that’s the truth, but she damn well better.

  “How long has she been in France?”

  “Since before Christmas. She and my father were, uh, getting a divorce.” I’m not sure that is something that was public knowledge yet, but if my mom didn’t want anyone knowing, she should have picked up her damn phone. Besides, what the fuck does it matter now?

  Detective Decker raises his eyebrows at that piece of information. “Is that so? Do you think she could have had anything to do with your father’s death?”

  “I don’t think so,” I admit. It’s the truth. I briefly debated the possibi
lity, but there’s just no way. Sure, she will be embarrassed when her socialite friends all hear the gossip of her divorce, but she was set for life financially and seems to enjoy living in France, from what I gather. It’s not like she ever phones me or anything. Plus, whoever murdered my father had a hell of a lot of rage in them. Whoever it was clearly had a personal issue with him, and my mother just doesn’t give enough of a crap about him to do that. Not that she would have done the dirty work herself, anyway. If she wanted to get rid of my father, she would have hired a hitman to have the job done cleanly and professionally.

  So, no, whoever killed my dad, it definitely wasn’t my mom.

  The doorbell goes then, and Greta makes a move to answer it. “That will be our forensics team. We need to have a look at the crime scene and gather evidence. Do you mind if we look around the rest of the house?”

  “Sure, no problem,” I agree easily. I have no idea if my father has anything lying around that he wouldn’t want others seeing, nor do I give a shit. Honestly, if they find out about The Citadel themselves, it would probably make all of our lives easier. Unfortunately, I doubt they will, but here’s hoping.

  “Good. This entire property is now a crime scene. Do you have anywhere you can stay for the next few days?”

  “Yeah, I can stay with Preston. Can I grab some stuff from the pool house?”

  “I’ll have someone check it out and once we’ve cleared it then, yeah, you can pack some clothes and whatever else you need.”

  I nod my head in thanks as the forensics team enters the house and Greta directs them up the stairs towards my father’s suite.

  “Here’s my card, let me know if you think of anything that might be relevant,” Detective Decker says, handing me a small business card before trailing the forensic team up the stairs along with his silent partner.

  “I’ll make us some coffees and sandwiches,” Greta murmurs when the detectives are out of sight, probably wanting to find something to do to keep herself busy and her mind off her mutilated employer upstairs.