I threw back the covers and went to the window.
Surrounding the streetlights on the street below, circles of illumination danced upon the frosted grass. It was the same scene I’d watched for twenty-four years. I’d aged, but the neighborhood remained the same. Some of the homes had changed ownership, yet their pristine exteriors were unchanged. That was my problem with being here. I’d told Van about it once, how merely being within the walls made me feel younger, inexperienced, and less capable.
When here, I was Gregg and Ana’s child.
Leaning against the window frame, my warm breath coated the panes with condensation. I closed my eyes and remembered the conversation. It was here in my bedroom. Another tear glided down my cheek as Van’s deep baritone voice reverberated in my thoughts. ‘I don’t see you as a child. Seeing your childhood home and room isn’t changing my opinion of the amazing woman I found in the snow.’
My gaze went to the clock on the bedside stand. It was after three in the morning. Not the best time to call Mr. Fields or Margaret. Giving up on sleep, I went to the attached bathroom.
“I’m going to find you, Van,” I said aloud as I stepped under the shower’s spray. Lifting my face to the shower, I closed my eyes. The rest of my thoughts were not audible; nevertheless, they continued.
“You found me. You found me in a blizzard. You saved me. More than that, you showed me who I could be. I won’t stop being that person. It’s my turn. I’m coming to save you.”
Margaret told me that anything was possible if you paid enough. I had money of my own. Taking my phone, purse, and coat, I stopped at the top of the main staircase. The morning sky beyond the grand front doors was still filled with night. Artificial illumination shone through the leaded-glass transoms.
My thoughts momentarily went to my parents. They’d learn I was gone once they woke.
Quietly, I moved down the staircase until I stood upon the marble entry. It had been a while since I’d snuck into my father’s office. It wasn’t as if the space was off-limits, only that I had little interest in entering. This morning I had an interest. My computer was still in Ashland and using Dad’s would be easier than my phone to search for a car rental.
The familiar hallways were dark. Yet I knew every turn. I’d strolled these passages since I could walk. Down one way and over another. The door to Dad’s home office was slightly ajar. Stepping forward, I pushed the door inward. The scents of books combined with the lingering aroma of coffee and cigar calmed my nerves. As with the rest of this house, even in the dark, nothing had changed.
Going to Dad’s desk, I tugged the pull-cord on the lamp, filling the desktop with illumination. Upon the desk was a tumbler with a small amount of liquid. Lifting the glass, I inhaled. The weakened aroma of whiskey was easily detectable.
Since when had my father been a drinker?
My hand went to the mouse as I woke his computer. While I hadn’t thought about there being a password, I found myself staring at the screen. It was a numerical code. My first guess was my parents’ anniversary.
No.
I entered my birthday.
A smile curled my lips as the computer came to life.
I opened another tab and entered the name of the rental company I’d used in December. Soon I had a car reserved and a pickup scheduled for six a.m. Leaning back in Dad’s chair, my focus went to the pictures on his desk. Other than one from his wedding, the rest were of me. No wonder I felt as if I were a child here under this roof. There were pictures of me ranging from infancy through present day.
As I was about to stand, I noticed his email tab. The open email was from Marlin Butler. It arrived at 10:52 p.m. last night. All it said was for Dad to call him.
My skin prickled as I looked at the desk phone.
What did Marlin need to speak to Dad about late at night?
Did it have something to do with why my father had been drinking?
I searched for any emails sent after their conversation, but there were none. It was then that I noticed the small scratch pad of paper tucked away under a few pieces of mail. I had no way of knowing if these clues were in any way connected.
Never could it be said that my father had legible handwriting. Lifting the pad, I deciphered the message that was partially crossed out.
Julia.
She needs to know.
As I pushed the chair away, I kicked a small wastebasket below his desk.
What did I need to know?
I can’t say what prompted my search, but soon I was pulling papers and envelopes from the small trash can.
One was crumpled. I flattened it out and tried to read Dad’s writing.