36. Blaise

Two days pass. The police are as useless as a sloppy condom in a trash can. I’ve lost count of how many times I have checked my phone, praying to hear from Cole while also knowing I won’t. What’s he going to do? Message me?

Hi Blaise, my battery died. We’re at Starbucks. Come meet my dad.

Seated with my elbows on the kitchen table, I smack my head, muttering, “Fucking stupid.” I hit my head again, but the dull ache doesn’t help.

Detective Calleary, a middle-aged man with a beer gut and impressive sideburns, and his colleague, Jones, look at me equally pityingly. My father remains a statue beside me while the coffee machine splutters in the background, filling the air with its rich aroma.

“It’s the least I can do,”Dad said when the detectives entered the kitchen to inform us about their progress or lack thereof.

Dragging my hands down my face, I blow out a long, tired breath. The coffee machine falls silent, but no one moves. I’ve lived in the same black hoodie and jeans since the night Cole was taken. I had a quick shower to wash away the blood, then dressed like a robot. I pulled the hoodie over my head, barely aware of sliding it down over my T-shirt.

Lowering my hands, I stare at my abused cuticles. My cracked knuckles are slowly healing, and something about that—the proof that time moves on even when we don’t want it to—angers me. I don’t want another fucking day to pass until they catch Cole’s dad and lock him up for good. I haven’t slept for more than an hour or two at a time. I’m fucking tired. No, scrap that, I’m exhausted.

The anger inside me boils over, and I slam my hand down on the kitchen table. No one reacts, not even when I shoot to my feet and kick over the chair.

“Blaise,” Dad tries, sounding tired.

“Fuck you,” I snarl, ripping the stupid fucking coffee machine from the wall and tossing it into the sink. Scalding water splashes onto my arms and hands, but I don’t give a shit about the pain.

Detective Jones stands from the table and puts his meaty hand on my shoulder. I shrug him off, breathing like a bull.

He takes the hint and holds up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Sorry…”

I look between them all, feeling like a scared animal backed into a corner.

“You’re hurt,” Jones says, jutting his chin to my hands.

I’m bleeding.

My skin is bright red from the hot water, and the crusts on my cracked knuckles have opened back up.

“Look,” he says, speaking to me like I’m a flight risk.

Am I? The urge is definitely there to bolt.

“We will find them, Blaise.”

“The fuck you will! They’ve been missing for two days…” I look away, my chest rising and falling rapidly. “Two fucking days.”

“I’ve got my best men on the case,” Detective Calleary says across the table. “They’re out there right now, chasing clues.”

“Blaise,” Dad breathes, fed up with my mood swings. “Sit down, son.”

“Shut up!” I roar. “Shut the fuck up, Dad.” I point out the window. “They’re out there somewhere. You didn’t see the look in Malcolm’s eyes. He has lost it. Do you hear me? Lost it! He doesn’t care what he has to do to get his family back.”

Dad sighs, and it pisses me off even more.

Detective Jones tries to reach for me again, but I shrug him off with a hard glare, then look at the unfeeling man who fathered me. “Don’t you get it? He will kill them before turning the gun on himself. He’ll try to play happy families for a while. But he will snap sooner or later. He’s unstable.”

“Blaise,” Detective Jones says carefully. “If you don’t calm down, we’ll have to take you in.”

“Take me in?” I frown. “Are you fucking serious?”

“It’s for your own protection. They’ll be able to get you something to calm you down.”

“Fuck you,” I sneer. “We’re in this fucking situation because Malcolm was allowed to keep his fucking badge. This could have been avoided if the police department would’ve done their job instead of brushing it under the carpet.”

“That’s not true,” Dad interjects, and I look at him. Betrayal gnaws at my insides when he rises to his feet. “Badge or no badge, it was a restraining order. He was free to walk the streets. No piece of paper could have stopped him from taking what he wanted.”

“Clearly,” I spit bitterly before pushing past Detective Jones on my way out.

They don’t stop me, which is just as well. I don’t know what I’ll do if someone tries to keep me here. My skin crawls like there are hundreds of worms beneath it. I’m a restless, caged circus animal.

I jog down the porch steps and cross the lawn to the car. Gunmetal gray clouds roll across the sky from the south. As I climb into the car, the first raindrop slams down on the windscreen with a dramatic splash. More follow until it hammers on the roof like a stampeding herd.

I need to get out of here.

After reversing out of the drive, I slam my foot down on the accelerator. The wipers work overtime, and the road is barely visible in the heavy downpour. I take a corner too fast and nearly lose control of the vehicle. Panic seizes me as the tires skid on the wet surface.

Spooked, I pulled over by the side of the road and cut the engine. My heart slams around inside my chest. I need to calm myself the fuck down, or I’ll crash into a tree or, worse, another car. My sanity is slowly slipping between my fingers.

I grip the steering wheel like my life depends on it, and blood seeps from my knuckles. The cuts split open more as I white-knuckle the leather. I hate feeling so helpless. What if Cole is dead? Two days without treatment for a gunshot wound is bad fucking news. What if he bled to death?

My head falls back against the headrest, and I close my eyes.

I will myself to think clearly, but it’s a lot easier said than done. All I want is to burn the fucking world down for Cole. He’s buried underneath my skin, and now it feels like I’ve lost the other half of my soul.

I lift my head off the headrest, then slam it back again. The ache in my chest won’t subside. Guilt twists my insides. I couldn’t save him from his dad. I promised him I’d keep him safe but broke my word.

I wring the steering wheel while my mind torments me. I should have saved him. I shouldn’t have let his dad take him. I should have told him I loved him more often.

So many things I should have done but didn’t.

As a car whizzes by outside, briefly rocking the vehicle, I drive my fist into the steering wheel, then try to rip it out but fail miserably. I hit it again and again, exerting whatever little energy I have left until I break down into sobs.

My shoulders shake from the force, but I’m done fighting the foreign emotions that have resided inside me ever since I met Cole. No walls high enough could have protected me from this.

I saw my arm across my damp eyes and fetch my phone from my pocket. There are no new messages or calls from Cole.

“Fuck,” I whisper, willing it to vibrate with an incoming text. “Please, just tell me where you are.”

Tossing the phone back down, I rest my elbow on the door where it meets the window, and rub my lips with my middle and forefingers. The rain bounces off the pavement as the wind whips through the branches of the trees lining the road.

It’s a miserable fucking day.

I pick my phone back up to google his father while the windows slowly steam up. When that doesn’t return anything I haven’t already read, I look up our local police department and spend endless minutes skim-reading pointless articles. But at least I’m doing something. That’s what I tell myself when a logging truck thunders past.

An incoming text from Tiago steals my attention. He has checked up on me more times than I can count in the last couple of days. I appreciate it, but I also wish he would leave me alone.

Swiping the notification off the screen, I reach for the keys and turn the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I check my mirrors before pulling away from the side of the road.

The drive across town to Cole’s childhood home doesn’t take long. I park outside the derelict house and peer through the passenger window. It’s just as depressing as last time.

After unbuckling the seat belt, I exit the car. The rain has stopped, and I skirt around puddles in the cracked pavement.

I cast a look down the street to ensure no one is around to pay attention. I’m alone. The gate squeaks open ominously on its rusty hinges. My lungs expand on a shaky inhale, and I ask myself, not for the first time, what the fuck I’m doing. The police have already searched the property. They’re not here.

But I have to check it out for myself. I can’t sit around a minute longer while the police flounder like washed-up, gasping fish.

I jog up the sagging porch.

A wind chime attached to the roof plays a tinkling, haunted tune. There’s something inherently creepy about this place—an evil that lingers in the air and refuses to leave.

I almost wish I had brought sage or something to cleanse this place of ghosts and I don’t even believe in that crap.

As I apply pressure to the rotten wood, the door creaks open, and dried leaves drift across the floor. I step over a console table that lies upturned on the mucky floor and breathe in the dank and stale air.

When was the last time someone opened a window?

As I make my way deeper into the house, it soon becomes obvious that it has been abandoned for some time. Damask wallpaper peels away from the corners, dark mold grows on the roof in blotchy patches, and a thin layer of dust covers every surface. I struggle to picture Cole growing up here, but this is the horrifying truth of his past. These are his roots.

I pause in the living room doorway and scan the dark room. Heavy, moth-eaten curtains frame the windows, blocking out the daylight. A small sliver breaks through the gap, and dust mites float peacefully in an eternal dance, forever adrift.

Crossing the room, I skirt the flowery couch and pull the curtains open to flood the room with light, then cough when it disturbs the dust. “Fuck…” I waft the air, looking around.

A forgotten can of beer still sits on the coffee table, like the owner of the house rose from the armchair one day, walked out, and never returned.

As I drift my fingers over the dusty couch, it dawns on me how little I know about Cole. I want to know every secret he’s ever told, every nightmare that’s kept him up at night, and every fantasy he’s pictured while touching himself.

The less I realize I know, the more I want to dig beneath his skin until I unearth all those secrets he guards close to his heart. I don’t care if I have to carve him open to get at what he’s hiding at his core.

I walk the length of the room, drifting my fingers over every surface, feeling an inexplicable urge to touch his past.

Disturbing the dust on the empty bookshelf, I imagine a much younger Cole doing the same.

A freestanding lamp in the corner lacks its lampshade. The electricity has long since been cut, so nothing happens when I pull the string, but I still picture it flooding the room with an ambient golden glow.

I’m just about to turn around and leave the room, when my eyes snag on a framed medal on the wall. I walk closer, tilting my head sideways. It looks out of place in this run-down, miserable house.

It’s an award. A bravery award with Cole’s dad’s name, to be exact.

Huh…

Cole never mentioned it. And it’s also difficult to imagine the drunk, unhinged man who fired the gun on his son as the recipient of such a prestigious award.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I rip it out so fast, I almost drop it. Tiago again. Disappointment weighs heavily on my chest as I swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear.

“Miss me already?”

“Har. Har. Have you heard anything yet?”

“No. The cops are fucking useless,” I say as I cross the room to a set of drawers. “I don’t know what the fuck to do…” My voice bleeds with frustration.

Tiago is silent for a moment. I pull open a drawer and root through its contents.

“Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?”

I scoff, inspecting a sepia photograph of an elderly man in suspenders on a sun lounger with a cigar in his mouth. I drop it back down, then pull open the next drawer. “I can’t make promises.”

“Where are you?”

“At home, debating if I should binge-watch Friends or Gossip Girl.”

“Fucking liar,” he chuckles. “I went by your house, and your dad said you left.”

“I couldn’t sit around.”

“You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?” I ask, pulling open the third drawer and rooting through paperwork. There’s no system to any of it. Someone rammed it all in here.

I pull out the contents, phone balanced between my ear and shoulder as I flip through the unpaid bills and letters. They sail through the air and flutter to the floor.

“You have that tone in your voice.”

“I don’t have a tone in my voice.”

“Stop lying to yourself. Just…” He hesitates. “You could hinder the investigation.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the investigation right now,” I reply. “Cole is injured…” I drift off when I spot a yellowed cutout news clipping amongst the letters.

‘Police officers win bravery award.’

I feel a frown on my forehead as I let my eyes roam over the photograph of two young, proud officers. One of them is definitely a much younger version of Cole’s dad.

I scan the news article to find the date. Quick math tells me this was published years before Cole was born. His dad was in his early twenties, fresh out of the police academy⁠—

“Blaise?” Tiago asks.

“I have to go.”

“Fuck that. What did I say about doing anything stupid?”

I hang up on him, then pocket my phone while reading the article. Cole’s dad and a colleague won a bravery award for neutralizing a shooter who entered a local warehouse and opened fire on the workers.

How come no one talks about this? And what the hell has happened to Malcolm? He could never replicate that moment and, according to my diligent research, he got into trouble at work for turning up drunk. It spiraled from there.

I look over at the medal on the wall, then back down at the article. A grainy photograph shows the warehouse nestled amongst fir trees.

Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I google the address. Call it a hunch or a sixth sense, but something tells me it’s important.

The paper clip trembles in my hand. It’s probably a long shot, but I have to check it out to see if there’s even the slightest chance that he took them there, back to a place of immense pride and nostalgia, back to a time when he felt like he could go somewhere in the world—back to the beginning.

The news article flutters to the floor, and I stride back out with a renewed sense of urgency.