32. Until the End
I planted a red oaktree where he was buried.
To me, it was better than leaving flowers. Flowers get stepped on, wither away, decay into the dirt. But red oak trees were our favorite—they reminded us of warm summers swimming in the lagoon, enjoying a picnic in the shade of the red canopy of leaves. This is how he would have wanted it.
The rain soaking the tree makes the leaves look like they are on fire, and the bark is almost black from water absorption. I did not have the means for a headstone, so I found a rock the size of a baby and carved his name.
Jack Ambrose.
I lean against the tree, avoiding the downpour as I process being here again. The last time I was here was the same day I said goodbye to Scarlett. The same day I watched her body light up with fire, and the last time I held her hand.
“Happy birthday,” I tell him, wondering how old he would be if he were still alive. “I’m not entirely sure why I came. I didn’t think I would have ever come back after—after we were here last. I partially blamed you for her death, but I mostly blamed myself.” I fidget with my wet hands uncomfortably. “Shediedthat day, Jack… And it was not a peaceful way of parting this world. It was ugly and sad and unnatural.”
A fist of hard anger clenches inside my chest. I want to scream at him. I want him to rise from beneath the mud and stand before me, so I can tell him all about Scarlett’s life—abused, molested, locked in a closet, starved, maimed, depressed, hating herself, hating me, and hating the world. But he is dead now, decayed and one with the earthworms.
“I still love her.” Fat drops of water fall from leaves overhead, splashing against my cheeks and drizzling down my scalp. “And I still love you, despite everything you’ve done, despite your abuse. Istilllove you. And when you died, I hope you left your ugliness behind in this world, so you can take care of my sister wherever you are now.”
I pause briefly. A shiny gold object catches my attention on top of his stone. I stand and pick it up with my index and thumb and let it settle on my palm. A gold locket that says:Until the End,engraved in cursive. I push my thumbnail between the crease and prop it open.
My neck stiffens, and I gasp.
I haven’t seen my father’s face in far too long, but it’s a face I could never forget. Bright, practically glowing, forest-green eyes, thick black hair, and the defined features of a pointy nose and square jaw. The picture on the right is of a woman who incites fire in my heart when I think of her face. Her hair is hanging down her shoulders in long, blonde waves. The sharp, poised face of a princess. She isn’t smiling; she is glaring. The circles under her eyes are ashen, as are the shadows under her cheekbones.
She’s sick.
This woman gave birth to Scarlett and me.
It’s hard to comprehend that this is only the second time I have ever laid eyes on her. The pit of my stomach stings with an unrecognizable growth of resentment. I’m suddenly aware of my surroundings. Could this locket have been left here today? It would make sense. Our mother, Violet, was here on the day Scarlett died. She was drenched in tears for the anniversary of my father’s death. It was the first time I saw her in person.
A wave of sickness fills my stomach at the thought of her stare aimed at Scarlett. My sad, sad Scarlett. She only ever wanted to be loved by Violet.
I tuck the locket into my pocket and take a step toward my father’s stone and rest my hand where the locket once was. A flashback of the back of his hand striking my cheek shoots pain down my spine. Then another flash of my father sitting with me on the edge of acliff—watching the sunset bounce across the lagoon under the red oaks.
33. The Leather Man
I snuck into Aurick’s housethrough the window.
He was arguing on the phone with someone about acquiring better filing systems. I figured he would be asleep, or at least that’s what I was hoping for.
I wanted to be alone for a little while before Aurick realized I was home and bombarded me with questions, so without changing out of my wet clothes, I climbed the attic ladder and enclosed myself in the only room I haven’t been in.
I stand up, observing the moonlit attic coated with a thick sheet of dust and old furniture. I curl up on a pink velvet,mahogany-framedcouch,pulling out the contents of my pocket. The string that I felt first is a necklace made of leather, with a small wooden cross hanging off the bottom. I inspect the cross closely. Its edges are jagged, its ends are uneven. It was, without a doubt, handcrafted.
And since this is a clue to figuring him out, could this mean that his previous host was a believer in Christ? I pull out the piece of paper I found. Although, it’s not just a piece of paper. It’s an envelope.
To The Leather Man
This will be my last letter to you.
It is to happen soon.
I have done all I can for my sons. Their affairs are in order—I have planned for the next fifty years, and one day, they’ll find it together and put the pieces together.
You know how I’ve always enjoyed my puzzles.
I do hope you’ve done your part—for the key to said puzzle. Without it, my pieces might disappear, dissolve into my memory forever.
My last bit of advice, as parents, this is all we can do. This evil is beyond the protection of mother and father. Beyond the walls we can build to protect them. Because, my dear friend, they will grow to protect themselves. My eldest knows to never abandon the key to that puzzle. He has learned quickly and will come to you when that evil knocks on my door, and only then may I finally rest.
