Page 120 of Volatile Waters

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

True Colors

On the private jet, I stared at my cellphone, wishing it would ring. I had searched the woods behind my home and called out for Wolf, but he was gone. I couldn’t even find my uncle’s guard.

Whitney was sleeping in the seat next to mine. She was curled into a ball, still in the black robe. She looked cold, so I stood and searched the compartments for a blanket. I found one under a set of earphones. After I covered her, tucking her tight to provide warmth, she softly sang words I had heard before. It was on a video of Link when he was singing in the shower.

I grabbed the set of headphones and returned to my seat.

After I placed headphones over my ears, I searched for the American song, “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper. Pushing play, I heard a simple song with deep meaning. At different times, worlds apart, Link and Whitney had sung this song, I believe to each other.

Flying Whitney to Hawaii to meet up with Mr. Jones, the father who refused to give up, the song continued to play. I stared out the plane’s window and into the night. “She’s coming back to you, Link.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Standing on the tarmac, watching that girl be driven away was like flying to the moon, although all alone. The alienation was profound. I had never lived on my own or out of the only home I knew. Now, I was utterly by myself, with only one hope of having someone again. But that call didn’t come. My phone was kept charged, but Wolf had disappeared, too.

Back in Connecticut, it was time to sever another tie of Whitney’s. This one was also a personal one. The coordinates took me directly to his unmarked grave. I stood there with a shovel, dreading this upheaval of earth, but I had to cover all trails leading back to the girl who deserved no more interruptions in her life.

Inside his grave, Crash had been wrapped in a beautiful blue blanket, as if a mother had swaddled her child. I paid no attention to the decomposition of his body that had taken place over the past year and carried him as if he were still whole. For he was, in my heart. My tears dripped onto the blanket as I walked through the woods. I wish I could have left him be, let him rest where his mother had placed him, but I also knew, someday, this earth would house homes, and the construction upheaving his body would bring about questions that would lead back to Mr. Thompson, the father who had never reported his son missing. Everyone Crash ever knew would be questioned. That would be many, since he sold drugs to all the kids in their town. People had seen him with Whitney and Link. What if the authorities learned of Crash’s true mother? True brother?

The truth getting out would cause media attention and an endless amount of demanded answers.

No. That would disrupt Whitney’s happiness. Not an option.

So, after loading Crash into a rental, I drove him back to the house he desperately ran from. I passed woods, down another long, isolated road to Harold Thompson’s mansion. My plan was to bury Crash there, so if ever found, his family would be blamed, but I never expected to see his house in a roaring blaze when I arrived. I raced through the open iron gate. There were no firetrucks or Harold’s employees present, but there was Harold. He was frantic, running along the outer walls, peeking in the windows, searching for something or someone.

After slamming the SUV into park, I leaped from the vehicle. “What the fuck happened?”

He saw me then roared, “Was this you?”

I ran toward him, yelling, “No! Is anyone inside?”

Glass shattered out of windows at the back of the house. The fire, savagely burning through the home, was as loud as Harold’s cries for help. He kept running and searching every window. “Yes, but I don’t know fucking where they are! The doors are blocked from the inside!”

Someone was making Harold pay. For what? I didn’t know, but I needed to know who I was searching for. “Who? Who are they?”

He threw a rock through a dining room window. “My Wife!” He peaked inside but found no one. “And,” he picked up another rock and threw it at me this time, “your son!”

With all I had been through, I thought nothing could shock me anymore.

Oh, how I was wrong.

Lost in the mind-fuck of all ages, I stuttered, “W-What are you talking about? How?” Harold crashed his elbow through another window, frantically screaming for his wife and a boy named Kaleb. Numbly, I followed, “B-But…”

“Yury! Fucking help me! Or you will never get the chance to meet your six-year-old son!”

I stumbled while thinking about following Mrs. Thompson, all those years ago, when she took a cab to see a little boy. On that same night, she had been adamant that I would never have sex with her again. And, after I had told her to be a good mother, she had slipped into a dazed state of mind. “Oh, my God.”

Harold was unraveling at a high rate. “Yes! Fucking help me!”

The Dominant in me took over. I pointed to the back of the house. “You go that way! I will go around to the front!” I raced along the side of the house and back to the front. I tried the door, but Harold was right. It was unlocked but blocked. Through the front door’s foggy glass for privacy, I saw movement on the second floor. “I see someone! I see someone!” I ran to the window. It was Mrs. Thompson and a young boy at the top of the stairs, trapped by fire. She was helping the child to crawl over the railing. He had blond hair like I had as a child. “Harold!” I screamed as I picked up a cement figurine from between the shrubbery. I threw it through the window. The oxygen seemed only to feed the fire.

When Mrs. Thompson saw me trying to enter, she screamed, “Yury! Catch him!” Ignoring my body’s pleas to run away from the blazing heat, I was halfway through the window as Kaleb hung from his mother’s grip. Fire was all around her. I think the heat was singeing her skin, but the brave woman held on to save her—our—son’s life. Everything was on fire on the first floor except for a couple of spots on the ground leading to the front door. At the door was a 2x4 piece of wood propped to prevent entry.

Once through the window, with my arms outreached to touch my son, I ran across the foyer…

I may not be the devil, but I believe he does exist.