Allison
I try not to, but I end up having a really good time with Keely.
For the next few days, the rules are suspended. Although we’re trailed by a small army of bodyguards, I show Keely around Portland, starting with all the big tourist areas and moving into my favorite local spots. We get lunch, go on a couple hikes, see a movie, grab some dinner, even go dancing when Keely practically begs me to take her somewhere. “I used to do this all the tie with my bestie, Jamila,” she says as she loses herself on the dance floor.
She’s a lot of fun and really easy to get along with. And it helps that she makes me this unbelievable batch of homemade donuts on the morning of her last day. We both know she’s getting on the plane later that afternoon, but we don’t talk about it. Instead, I eat way too much, give myself a minor sugar hangover, and sit out back in the comfortable morning breeze.
“Still on the fence?” she asks, and I know what she means.
“Not on the fence,” I say. “Just not going.”
“Got it.” She looks at her nails. “I don’t blame you. Portland’s a cool town.”
“I had a lot of fun with you,” I say and really mean it. “I wish I could get on that plane. I just can’t.”
She nods, quiet, and looks like she wants to say something-but she looks over my shoulder and tenses.
I follow her gaze. Gregory’s standing in the sliding door staring right at me. I meet his eye and hold it, daring him to come out here. He only gestures for me to follow him back inside.
“Better go,” Keely whispers. “At least hear him out.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I’ve found that resisting them only makes it worse.”
I grunt, annoyed, but she’s right. I can’t ignore Gregory forever and decide to head inside after him.
I find him standing at the kitchen, eating one of Keely’s donuts. “This is really good,” he says. “Did you try one?”
“She made twelve,” I say, gesturing at the two leftovers. “She ate one.”
“Impressive.” He puts the remains down. “I have something for you.”
“If it’s a ticket to Boston, don’t bother.”
“No, I think you’ll be much more interested in this.” He turns to the door. “Follow me.”
I hesitate, not in the mood for his mysterious bullshit, but end up ghosting along behind him anyway. We get into one of his big SUVs and head into the city. It takes me a few minutes to recognize where we’re going, but I don’t believe it until we’re parked out front.
I stare at the old house. It’s a Victorian-style home, the interior modernized about twenty years ago, though it’s beginning to show some wear around the edges. I know it intimately; I can still picture its smell, the rooms, the narrow staircases. It’s the house I grew up in.
“Why are we here?” I ask as a thousand memories of Freya burst through my mind.
“Your father is currently driving two hours for a meeting that doesn’t exist. The house will be empty for a while. I was thinking we could look around and see if we find anything.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
“Very serious. It took some work and planning to fool your father into leaving, and I don’t want to squander the opportunity. I promised you revenge, and I will make good. This is one step on that path.”
I stare back at the house. “But you’re sending me back to Boston.”
“Yes, you’ll get on the plane tonight. For now, though, let’s rip your father’s home to shreds.”
I don’t move. Tears fill my eyes. I blink them away, clearing my throat, swallowing against the lump. “Freya’s room hasn’t changed much, you know. He kept it the same, even after she left the house. Same with my room.”
“He’s your father. He’s old and sentimental.”
“Yes, that, but he’s also lazy and doesn’t love throwing things away.” I give Gregory a hard stare. “Let’s go find some dirt.”
—————-
Gregory goes to pick the lock, but I brush him off, brandishing the key that’s hidden under one of the downspouts. The interior is exactly the way I remembered, down to the paintings and the pictures on the end tables. My father hasn’t made a single change since I last lived here not all that long ago, which doesn’t surprise me. He’s not the kind of man that cares much about how his house is decorated. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn he’s barely ever home.
“I’ll look down here,” Gregory says. “Does he have an office?”
“I’ll take that and his bedroom, they’re both on the second floor.” I glance at the staircase. A sudden memory hits me: jumping off the third step with Freya, landing in a heap at the bottom, laughing our heads off, doing it again until Papa made us stop. “This isn’t going to be easy for me.”
“If you’d like, I can have my men do it. They’ll be thorough. We’re good at this sort of thing.”
“No.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “I can handle it.”
I need to handle it.
I’m not sure if Gregory brought me here because he knew it would be cathartic to face my past, but it’s exactly what I need right now.
A heavy dose of what my life could’ve been.
If Freya hadn’t been pimped out to Paul. If she hadn’t gotten killed.
Maybe she, Papa and I might’ve been having dinner together this very night, if things had been different.
“Good luck,” Gregory says.
We break apart. He drifts back toward the living room, and I head up the stairs.
Papa’s bedroom is at the far end. His door calls, but I force myself to look away. I start with my own space, though I know there’s nothing. I give it a quick, cursory search, smiling at my old yearbooks, my old photos, even the books I loved as a kid. But I don’t let myself linger.
Next, I go to Freya’s room.
I stand in the doorway for what feels like an hour, but soon I’m moving through her stuff: checking her closet, pulling out drawers, rooting under the mattress. I try to make it as impersonal as I can, but by the time I’m halfway finished, tears roll down my face and drop like fat slugs onto the carpet.
It isn’t fair. Freya was so smart, so confident. She was everything I could ever want in a big sister-protective, kind, outgoing, genuine. We loved each other, fought with each other, were rivals and best friends. I wanted to be her when I was younger, and even when I got older, I found myself wishing I could have half her poise.
I find her old field hockey stick, her soccer uniform, the beading kit she used to make dozens of necklaces and bracelets for her friends, her CDs, her journals. I have to fight the urge to sit on her bed and read all her inner teenage angst. Instead, I find a better hiding place for them at the top of her closet. As I’m rooting around up there, I find a box I don’t recognize and bring it down. Inside is a treasure trove of objects she shouldn’t have-a weed pipe, matches, a lighter, notes from boys, a phone she must’ve snuck into the house. Evidence of her rebellious phase where she wore a lot of black but never committed to the whole goth lifestyle.
“I’m sorry, Freya,” I whisper, standing in the middle of the room, crying freely now. “I should’ve done something to help. I just didn’t know how.”
Nobody answers. The house is silent. Freya’s gone, and I can’t fix what happened.
I turn away and force myself to leave her room.
Wiping my face on my sleeve, I head into the master bedroom.
It’s fastidiously neat. Papa was always obsessive about clutter. I began to search in earnest, going through everything, all his drawers, even his underwear, looking for anything that might be of use. There’s nothing, only the detritus of a long life. Old pens, broken watches, rubber bands, some cash forgotten under an old detective story paperback. Papa’s ties are lined up neatly in the closet. His slacks are pressed and cleaned. His shoes are all shined. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, not behind the rack of suits, not in the bottom corners, not hidden behind a loose board.
Which brings me to his office. It’s located off his bedroom in the bonus space above the garage. It’s hot, but Papa had a split AC system installed years back. I don’t turn it on-he’d notice. Somehow the man can sense when someone turns on this stuff.
Instead, I hit the drawers. There’s some interesting stuff regarding the business, old contracts, old ledger books. I flip through them but don’t find anything good. As I dig, I can’t help but think how strange this is, going through my father’s things. If he found me doing this as a girl, he would’ve gone ballistic and thrown me out of the house. Now I don’t care what he thinks about any of this, so long as I get some answers.