He doesn’t laugh, but the squeeze to my abdomen gives me comfort, letting me know he at least acknowledges that we’re both a little damaged, just not permanently.
As he holds me, my mind travels to the moment I lost all of my empathy, sympathy, and feelings altogether.
Chapter Nineteen
Bridger
“Being a Clemonte means something, Bridger,” Dad explains, leading me to the car. “I’ve packed everything we’ll need, this night is really important.” His face hardens, there’s no malice behind it, though, which makes me know he’s at least in a good mood tonight.
I’d just been outside with the guys. They were playing rugby while me, Ten, and Ross read books. They like fantasy and paranormal type books, everything I explore sticks toward historical events as told by those who were there, not authors who describe what they learned, narrating through the lens of partisanship.
Dad and I have never had a great relationship. It’s always been Mom and me. She takes care of me, loves me, makes me food, and makes sure I’m okay. Dad is never home. When it matters, he’s not around, like my swimming events. When he does show up, he at least tries to be human. That’s enough for me.
“What are we going to do?” I dare ask, not wanting him to get angry with me. I’ve seen him mad before, but it’s usually only at Mom. He calls her names and I don’t like the way he talks to her. The way he manhandles her makes me sick, but he tells me I’m being a baby, that a man has to control his woman.
“Our family duty,” is his only reply. We get in the car, buckling up, and then reversing out of our long-winded driveway. At Jordan’s place, we take classes where they teach us the proper norms of our familial ties. Mine has been explained as acquiring. Of what, I’m not certain.
The entire drive to our destination, we don’t speak. However, he listens to a podcast. True Crime of some sort.
They’ve never intrigued me—the podcasts—if anything, they make me uncomfortable. The way the host speaks of the crimes in such a detached way sends shivers down my spine. It’s clinical, divorced from the reality and severity of each crime. It reminds me of Dad when he first comes home from a long trip, before he’s had his Scotch and cigar.
Trees encompass the winding road, making it impossible to see how deep into the forestry location we are. When we finally pull up to the cabin in the wooded area, my stomach does this weird flippy thing, where everything feels wrong but it isn’t quite sure what it is. It’s dead silent, the only noises are the bugs in the distance, it’s as if the world is trying to tell me something.
The scent of tree sap lights up my senses as my eyes travel around my surroundings. Dad hasn’t said a word and when I peer at him, I understand. Gone is my dad. Now, the only one who exists is the expert. His face holds no emotions, there’s absolutely no strain in his appearance nor is there any hesitation. The only reaction he offers is a raised eyebrow.
“Come on, Bridger, we’ve got to get to work.”
“Work?”
“Retrieval. It’s what we do,” he mutters as if I’ve disappointed him. We. It’s my first time being a part of the family business. The Edgington Estate School always taught us that the Clemontes were respectable. They had the hardest jobs of all.
Acquiring.
I’ve never understood the concept.
Tonight will clear any confusion up.
When I don’t budge, Dad opens my door. “Now get the bag from the trunk and come to the foyer after.” He wastes no time walking away, trekking up the dirt path, his feet crunching the sediment beneath each step of gravel and rocks. When he makes it to the door, he doesn’t knock, entering without a second glance.
Chills race across every inch of me, my little hairs standing on end. Why would he walk in as if he’s the owner? Is he? Is this a secret workplace? I grab the bag, breathing in deeply, praying a bear doesn’t eat me while I’m all alone. But maybe that’d be better somehow? Less odd and uncomfortable.
Trailing after my dad, my feet make less noise than his. The bag is heavier than I expected, but nothing I can’t handle. I’m only twelve, but I’m not entirely weak and useless.
“Hurry up!” I hear Dad’s roar as I’m hitting the door. Opening it, I see him on the ground, towering over a lady. “Bag, now!” His face is contorted from focusing, but that’s not what I’m struggling with or stopped by. It’s the unblinking dead woman on the wood floor, her eyes wide with fear, chest unmoving, and my father’s hands wrapped around her throat.
“D-Dad…” I start, but he hushes me.
“The bag, son!”
I rush to him and set the bag on the ground. His hands have no gloves, sweat lines his forehead, and I realize, he’s literally like the murderers in his podcasts. He’s touching and leaving evidence, he’s a part of this crime and now I am too. Unzipping the bag, I allow my mind to settle, focusing on the one thing that’s always centered me.
Or rather, who.
Colton.
My future wife.
How could she want me after this?
Closing my eyes for a moment, I think of her and her silky hair, the way her pink lips part with surprise when I say something odd, or how she smiles when she’s happiest. I think of her and only her while I allow my brain to shut everything else out.
“What do you need?” My voice isn’t as shaky as my body. It’s still and ready. Prepared.
“I need you to stand back while I clean this mess. But anything you see, know it’s what is in your future. This is our legacy, Bridger. We are the boogeymen of the world.”
I swallow back the bile and nod. He shoos me away and I stand by the door, wishing I’d forget it all.
A knock at the door pushes me from the memory. Seeing that woman, who I still have no clue who she once was, ripped limb from limb and disposed of, it changed me.
Was she a mother?
Did she have a future?
Why did my father kill her?
As Clemontes, we were forced into a life of obtaining things by any means necessary. May it be a rare artifact, a letter from years ago, a person from another country, a new identity, or a dead body retrieval, our job is to get things and in that case, and many others since, to make them go away. Before the Grims were eradicated, they were the fixers, the keeper of records, and the ones who made things go away. Since their erasure, that job has been bestowed upon the Clemontes as well. We create a new life for the person who is involved, if necessary.
In the case of the pretty woman with hair golden but rouge as well, I have no clue what she did to deserve what she got.
After that night, though, I never could look Mom in the eyes again, knowing what her husband does for a living and forces me to do.