apps, but he did enjoy technology. He enjoyed the mechanics of it, understanding how things worked. He enjoyed creating things.
So why then, did he earn his money destroying things?
He destroyed livelihoods. He destroyed lives.
He destroyed families.
God, he was destroying mine. So casually, too. My protests were just an annoyance, the flap of a sparrow’s wings against the great hurricane force of him.
Behind the well made of wire, I spied a section of books about Chicago. A biography of Frank Lloyd Wright—my second-grade class had taken a field trip to his house in Oak Park. There was a book on suspected haunted locations, with dog-eared pages and highlights for places in Chicago: an abandoned theater, a church.
As I moved to replace the books, the pages caught on something stiff and flush against the side of the shelf. Feeling around, I pulled out a thin stack of postcards.
Welcome to Chicago, the top one said in bold yellow writing.
Exactly the kind of postcard I had received. My heart twisted. I imagined him collecting these, storing them away. There was always a feeling of reluctance to them, the way more time would pass, then less, each one of them bare of any message—as if he’d rather not have sent them but couldn’t help himself. A magnet drawn north whether he liked it or not.
I found what I was looking for in the bottom drawer of an ornate desk against the window. There were passports and bundles of cash tumbled together, the way normal people might collect thumbtacks and pens for when they need them. And there were phones—all cheap and black, disposable. Burner phones. I had learned enough about the way they operated in my brief time with him and Shelly. Nothing traceable.
I picked one at random and dialed home.
At least that was how I thought of it. Home. The place where my adoptive family lived. The place I had spent most of my life. I tried not to think of how I’d always been the outsider in the spaces between rings.
“Hello?” My mother. Her voice was already strained, as if she was worried.
“Mom? It’s me.”
“Oh, thank God. We tried calling you and I couldn’t—” Her voice cut off, and I realized that they may have actually seen something on the news about gunfire at my dorm—or maybe even a hostage being taken. Maybe the police had actually worked quickly to notify them.
A sudden warmth filled me, because, God, I hadn’t wanted to admit this to myself, but I couldn’t be sure they would be upset to find me gone.
“I’m okay,” I told her, even though I wasn’t totally sure I was. An hour ago I’d had a gun pointed at my head, even if the safety had been on. Now I was in the house of the man who had held that gun. And he claimed I couldn’t go back.
It didn’t matter, though. She didn’t seem to hear me. She was talking, almost pleading. “They took him, Ella. They came last night and took him. Please. You have to help. Please. ”
My blood turned cold. “Dad?”
He claimed to have quit gambling, but they never really quit, did they? If I had learned anything from my sociology classes, it was that—people didn’t change.
“Tyler,” she said, and my heart stopped completely. Not my brother. My brother that I in turn resented and adored, the brother that I never should have had, the brother I never deserved.
“No,” I whispered.
“They said we have to pay—more now that they have him. They didn’t say where or when, but—”
But we didn’t have the money, however much it was. My father must have been deep in the hole again. And if that was true, there wouldn’t be any money to pay for the dorm or college tuition. Not that I could even go back, if what Philip had said was true.
“Mom, I’m not—” My voice cracked. “I’m not on campus. Something happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
I should have told her. I needed to. But I just didn’t have the heart to explain about Philip or the armed men outside my window. Not when
So why then, did he earn his money destroying things?
He destroyed livelihoods. He destroyed lives.
He destroyed families.
God, he was destroying mine. So casually, too. My protests were just an annoyance, the flap of a sparrow’s wings against the great hurricane force of him.
Behind the well made of wire, I spied a section of books about Chicago. A biography of Frank Lloyd Wright—my second-grade class had taken a field trip to his house in Oak Park. There was a book on suspected haunted locations, with dog-eared pages and highlights for places in Chicago: an abandoned theater, a church.
As I moved to replace the books, the pages caught on something stiff and flush against the side of the shelf. Feeling around, I pulled out a thin stack of postcards.
Welcome to Chicago, the top one said in bold yellow writing.
Exactly the kind of postcard I had received. My heart twisted. I imagined him collecting these, storing them away. There was always a feeling of reluctance to them, the way more time would pass, then less, each one of them bare of any message—as if he’d rather not have sent them but couldn’t help himself. A magnet drawn north whether he liked it or not.
I found what I was looking for in the bottom drawer of an ornate desk against the window. There were passports and bundles of cash tumbled together, the way normal people might collect thumbtacks and pens for when they need them. And there were phones—all cheap and black, disposable. Burner phones. I had learned enough about the way they operated in my brief time with him and Shelly. Nothing traceable.
I picked one at random and dialed home.
At least that was how I thought of it. Home. The place where my adoptive family lived. The place I had spent most of my life. I tried not to think of how I’d always been the outsider in the spaces between rings.
“Hello?” My mother. Her voice was already strained, as if she was worried.
“Mom? It’s me.”
“Oh, thank God. We tried calling you and I couldn’t—” Her voice cut off, and I realized that they may have actually seen something on the news about gunfire at my dorm—or maybe even a hostage being taken. Maybe the police had actually worked quickly to notify them.
A sudden warmth filled me, because, God, I hadn’t wanted to admit this to myself, but I couldn’t be sure they would be upset to find me gone.
“I’m okay,” I told her, even though I wasn’t totally sure I was. An hour ago I’d had a gun pointed at my head, even if the safety had been on. Now I was in the house of the man who had held that gun. And he claimed I couldn’t go back.
It didn’t matter, though. She didn’t seem to hear me. She was talking, almost pleading. “They took him, Ella. They came last night and took him. Please. You have to help. Please. ”
My blood turned cold. “Dad?”
He claimed to have quit gambling, but they never really quit, did they? If I had learned anything from my sociology classes, it was that—people didn’t change.
“Tyler,” she said, and my heart stopped completely. Not my brother. My brother that I in turn resented and adored, the brother that I never should have had, the brother I never deserved.
“No,” I whispered.
“They said we have to pay—more now that they have him. They didn’t say where or when, but—”
But we didn’t have the money, however much it was. My father must have been deep in the hole again. And if that was true, there wouldn’t be any money to pay for the dorm or college tuition. Not that I could even go back, if what Philip had said was true.
“Mom, I’m not—” My voice cracked. “I’m not on campus. Something happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
I should have told her. I needed to. But I just didn’t have the heart to explain about Philip or the armed men outside my window. Not when
Similar Books
