If he were up, he would’ve already said something to me.
As I make my way into his office and straight to his desk, my gaze drifts around the space. This room is surprisingly clean. There is nothing on the floor, just an old worn-out brown shag carpet. It needs a good wash, but that’s about it. Natural sunlight beams in through the drapes that are pulled open.
Taking a step closer to the desk, I realize that first appearances can be deceiving.
This room isn’t clean at all.
The wood is completely overrun with files. Some open, others closed. They cover every bit of the surface.
There are sticky notes on some of them, too.
I need to go through everything, but he can’t see me looking. If he catches me, he’ll be upset and kick me out.
According to him, I’m supposed to leave the past where it belongs, shoved deep down where it never resurfaces, and I can never ask questions. Doesn’t sound like a good idea, since it’s probably the reason he drinks.
Yeah, that won’t fly for me, though. I need to know the truth. Which is why I’m here.
Again.
Searching.
The house is eerily quiet around me, and as I look down at his desk, I don’t even know where to begin. There are papers everywhere, thrown haphazardly around without a care in the world.
Old newspapers.
Clippings of certain articles.
Printed off emails.
Credit card receipts.
Call logs.
There is even a picture of a group of men sitting around a table with a circle around one of their heads.
There is so much here, but I won’t have time to go through all of it.
But the good news is, apparently, my father and I think alike. The file I’m looking for is open on top of the mess. The pieces of paper look like they were crumpled, then uncrumpled.
Why did you do that? Why did you throw this away but then changed your mind? Or maybe I have this all wrong. Maybe he wasn’t tossing it. Maybe he didn’t like what it said.
As if it made him angry to read them.
This piques my interest.
Leaning forward, I flatten out the sheets, then start to thumb through the documents for pertinent information. In the corner of the first page, in familiar print, I see my father made a note in black ink: Felix Bernard?
My client.
“What did you find, Dad?”
I’m about to turn the page and continue my search when I hear a noise.
I still my hands, and when I hear it again, I know he’s up for the day and coming in here. Closing the file, I step away from his desk.
Then I pull my phone out of my pocket, pretending to be on a call.
“Skye? Is that you?” His voice rings through the air.
“Yep . . . in your office.” I take another step back as his footsteps grow closer. Just as he’s about to enter the room, I lift my phone to my ear.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as his body comes into focus. His gray hair is disheveled; he looks like he needs a cup of coffee and a shower. There’s also something about his complexion that’s not right. His skin has a yellow tinge to it. Maybe he has a cold? “I didn’t expect you to visit me so soon.”
I shrug, making a great show of hanging up and placing the device back in my bag. “Can’t a girl visit her dad?”
My father looks me up and down. A soft smile spreads across his face, and new lines form as he stares at me with eyes full of love. Lines that weren’t there the last time I saw him. Not laugh lines. No, these pepper the skin near his temples. They make him look tired, as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. Which, knowing my father, it probably does.
“How are you feeling?” I move from where I’m standing by the window and step closer to him. He takes a step back, and his eyes narrow, his expression tight with strain.
“Is that why you’re in my house, to spy on me?”
Yes and no.
I allow my lips to part into a smile at his question. “Yep. You know me way too well,” I joke. The truth is, that’s not the only reason I’m here, but I’d rather he not catch on to the other reason.
That file on his desk.
The one that has coffee stains and crumpled corners from how often he’s looked at it. I wonder what he’s looking for.
Proof of Felix Bernard’s involvement as well?
A large part of me wants to come right out and ask him, but from past experiences, I know that if I do, he will clam right up, and then the file will go missing.
It’s better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission, and that is exactly what I plan to do, in this case. I know it’s unethical, and if anyone catches me, I’ll be disbarred, but I don’t care.
“You don’t believe I’m okay, Skye?” His voice cuts through the air, bringing tension in its wake.
Swallowing, I decide to answer truthfully. “Dad, I know you aren’t. And I can smell the booze.” I lift my brow at him, informing him without words that it’s not okay for him to be drinking.
His arm reaches up and covers his eyes before he’s dropping his hands back down to look at me. His gaze is unwavering. “Are you here to lecture me?” The bite of his voice makes me think if I don’t lighten the mood, a fight will ensue.
As much as I want to harp on him to stop, I don’t want to alienate him. He’s all I have. I need him in my life.
“Want the real answer?” I say, keeping the tone of my voice light and airy. It does its job because he laughs. He knows I’m going to give him a talking-to. My footsteps echo around us as I make my approach. Once I’m standing beside him, I touch his shoulder, noticing right away how frail he seems under my hand. He’s skin and bones. A soft gasp of concern bubbles out from my mouth, but I cover it up with a cough. “Come back to the city with me.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
I cock my head, moving it slightly to look into his eyes. “You would never be a burden to me, Dad. I owe you everything.”
“No. No, you don’t.” He shakes his head and turns away to walk out of the room. It’s as if he can’t look at me.
What are you hiding, Dad?
A part of me thinks it’s because he’s drinking again. He probably feels he’s letting me down, especially after what I just said to him. My father will never understand that nothing he could do would make me feel that way.
I follow him. He’s not far ahead, but I let him get his thoughts together before approaching him.
Whatever haunts him is enough to make him reluctant to share it with me, probably out of an unwarranted belief that I will judge him. That would never happen, but regardless, I give him that moment.
He heads into the living room and takes a seat on the well-weathered couch that sits adjacent to the recliner. The couch has been here for as long as I can remember. Longer than the chair, that’s for sure. With countless stains and arms that are frayed, the fabric has seen better days.
Over the years, since I’ve become a lawyer—and since I’ve been able to afford it—I have tried to convince him to let me buy him a new one, but he always argues, and I don’t press the issue. Truth be told, my goal is not to get him a new couch; it’s to get him a new place. To move him far away from this town and the ghosts that still live here.
Ghosts that I know hover around him daily.