It’s like returning to the crime scene. No, worse. It’s like returning to the crime scene to confront your victim and expecting them to understand.
Honestly, sometimes I think Reginald is losing his marbles.
Yet, despite my father’s attempts to leave me with nothing, Reginald is the only reason I’m still standing.So, I owe him this much.
This better not go south, or he’ll take us all down with him.
I park away from the address on my phone. A quarter mile away, in the middle of nowhere. Then I take the long walk to the isolated cottage buried at the foot of the great mountains on the Isle of Skye.
The aurora lights dance, fluorescent blue and green striped across the dark, cloudless night. My pace slows when I approach the driveway, coming to a halt in front of the Skoda SUV. The man I’m supposed to meet is kneeling on the floor, checking the tires.
“Mr. Rycroft,” I call, clearing my throat. The man looks up with furrowed brows, fixing his glasses.
“Yes?” he says. “You are?”
“I’m here on behalf of Reginald Grant.”
The wrinkles on his face grow deeper as he slowly rises and glances over his shoulder through the cottage lounge window. A young brunette sits on the couch cross-legged with her tablet. An older woman, the mother, I assume, comes and removes her headphones, her lips moving.
“Do you have it?” Richard Rycroft asks.
I hand him the heavy piece of paper I have been carrying the long drive through all of England and Scotland.
“Can I ask what you hope to gain from this, Mr. Rycroft? It has been thirteen years. Seems like a lost cause to me.”
An aged smile lights his face when he peers at me over his glasses. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three,” I answer.
“No kids, I presume?” he asks. My silence answers his question. “If you decide to have kids, Mr…”
“Sterling,” I answer.
“If you decide to have kids, Mr. Sterling, you’ll understand your life freezes the moment your children are born. From that point onwards, everything is about them. This man,” he holds up the folded piece of paper, “broke a little girl and stole my legacy. No amount of time will stop me from looking for him.”
Hear that, Dad? Some fathers care about their children and their legacies.
“Anyway. Please extend my thanks to Mr. Grant. I know helping me must not have been an easy decision for him. I’m grateful.”
I nod once, thinking of disappearing, when the rhythmic sound of a bouncing ball interrupts us. A tall, blond young man in a hoodie appears from behind the car, dribbling a basketball.
“Dad?” His brows furrow as he strides toward us, the ball tucked under his arm. “What’s going on?” he asks, looking between his father and me.
“Nothing,” Richard replies. “This young man was lost. Why don’t you go check if your sister is packed?”
“We are only half an hour late.” He shrugs. “There is no way she’s started packing yet.”
“Then why don’t youhelp?” Richard suggests.
“Fuck that,” he groans. “I’ve gotta stay awake for the drive.”
“You’re not driving, Daniel,” Richard mutters.
“Course, I am,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I hope you find your lodgings, Mr. Sterling.” Richard turns to me. “I would invite you in for some tea, but we are about to leave.”
“Of course.” I nod. “Thanks for your help. Hope you have a safe trip home.”
