The Intern Vol. 2(4)

After school, I dig through my closet for something to wear at my  internship tomorrow. I have to keep up my appearance for the other  journalists that are also there, yet I want to look nice for Bentley.         

     



 

Butterflies rise in my stomach as I think about him. A queasy  combination of anxiety and fear build up as I think about being at work  with him all day. Would we go back to boss and intern or would he treat  me differently now?

However, as much as I want him, I want the truth about my dad more.

I shuffle through my closet and come across an old sweater I had  forgotten was stashed in here-a purple one. It's been my favorite color  ever since I was a kid. I don't even know why I still have it. It hasn't  fit me in years. It brings me back to my dad immediately. Soon, the  tears well in my eyes as I rub my thumb and forefinger over the fabric.



"How's it going, Princess?" my dad asked. I was sitting on my bed with  my knees pressed against my chest, my head dug into the gap, as the  tears streamed out.

He sat down next to me and rubbed my back until I calmed down enough to speak.

I wiped the tears off my cheeks and cleared my throat before speaking. "Today was the third grade spelling bee," I choked.

He sensed my disappointment immediately and wrapped his arms around me.

"What happened?"

"I was doing really good," I started to explain. "But then I guess I got  nervous and froze up. I spelled a really easy word wrong and lost."

It might not have been a big deal to most kids my age, but I had studied day and night on that list of words. I was prepared.

"I even wore my lucky sweater." I look down at my favorite purple sweater.

I could feel my dad's body tense around me. He wasn't sure what to say to console me. I wasn't the easiest person to console.

"You're smart, Cecilia," he began. I turned and looked up at him. His  eyes lit up and a smile crept on his face. And soon, I was smiling with  him. "You're the smartest girl I know. Don't let one mistake keep you  from taking on the world."

"You really think so?"

"I know so." He leaned in and kissed my forehead. I smiled. He always  knew what to say to make me feel better. "So what was the word?" He  leaned back and asked.

I sighed. "Honesty."



Thoughts of my dad surface randomly since his passing. A smell, a shirt,  a color-all types of things will bring the memories back.

As I stand in the doorway of my closet, I think about the words my dad said to me that day.

Don't let one mistake keep you from taking on the world.

It's the most powerful thing I've ever heard and up until now, I hadn't  realized just how powerful. He's right. Absolutely right. I shouldn't  let one incident keep me from doing what I plan on doing-finding justice  for my dad.

I walk to my mom's bedroom, peeking in before I plow right in. She should be working, but just in case, I double check.

She must have something in here. Some files, information, documentation  on my dad. She always told me she got rid of everything, got rid of the  memories, but something inside me knows she has to have something. There  has to be a reason she wanted to get rid of everything so fast.

I dig around her vanity, dresser, and closet.

Nothing.

I look under her bed, moving around all the old shoes and water bottles that must've slipped under there.

Again, nothing.

I sit on the floor and think for a moment as I slowly take a look around.

Nathan barrels through with no consideration that I'm sitting in the middle of the floor, almost knocking me over.

"Whatcha doing?" he asks, spontaneously jumping on top of the bed.

"None of your damn business," I snap, irritated that he's made me lose my concentration.

"Mom said you can't say that to me. She said you had to be nice to me!" he taunts.

"Mom's not here. So deal with it."

He's laughing, jumping up and down on the bed trying to touch the  ceiling. "You're going to break your damn neck. Get down," I scowl.

"Make me."

"One punch to your shin and you're going down. You really want to test me?" I stand up showing how serious I am.

"Na-na-na-na-na," he sings. God. I can't stand him sometimes. I know  he's begging for attention, but right now, I can't deal with his  shenanigans.

I watch as he jumps, arm straight up as he aims for the ceiling. He  almost touches it. I watch annoyed as he jumps deeper into the bed  making one last attempt to touch it.

It's like slow motion-his knees bend, his lips curve up into a smile as  his arm slowly reaches up until his body can't go any higher. And then  finally, his hand touches the pale-colored ceiling.

It's not until he lands back down shouting out in victory that it hits me.         

     



 

It's not under the bed.

If my mom were hiding something significant about my dad, she would hide it somewhere people wouldn't think to look.

"Nathan, off," I demand. I snap my fingers at him to get off the bed,  and he finally listens. "Go tell Casey to start dinner. I'll be right  down."

He skips happily out of our mom's room, finally, and I begin ripping the  sheet off. I feel around the mattress for a slit or opening. I round  the corner and still don't feel anything. Frustrated, I finally lift the  mattress up as high as I can. Adrenaline and determination feed my  strength to flip the entire thing over, and then I see it-a white  envelope taped to the bottom of the mattress.

I run over and grab it, ripping the tape off with it. It's sealed shut  with nothing written on the outside. I rub my fingers over it, wondering  if it'll give me any information that I've been craving.

I rip the envelope open and spot a small piece of folded paper. I pull it out and hold it firmly in between two fingers.

My breathing quickens as I unfold it, delicately as if it'll break. I unfold it once more before it's completely open, exposed.

Samuel Anderson.

42-19-36

No. 6

I stare at it and realize it's some kind of lock box code. Number 6 and  this was the lock combination. But for what? And where? And who the hell  is Samuel Anderson?

"Cecilia!" I hear my sister shout up the stairs. "Get your ass down here!"

"Hold on, I'll be right there!" I shout back unhappily.

I clench the piece of paper in my fist as I push the mattress back on  top of the box spring. I quickly put the sheets and pillows back on  before leaving the room.

As I walk down the stairs, I think about the secrets my mom must be hiding-hiding for my dad. Were we always unsafe?

After dinner, I go on a Google hunt for a Samuel Anderson. I have no  idea what I'm looking for, and considering it's an extremely common  name, I end up with thousands of Google links. But if it's important  enough for my mom to hide, it has to link to my dad somehow. I can feel  it.

I narrow it down and search Samuel Anderson + Nebraska.

No matches.

I try again, this time adding in my dad's old job title. Samuel Anderson + insurance broker.

Nothing.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought.





Bentley



My room still smells like her. Well, a blend of her anyway. Mixed with me. And sex.

Lots and lots of sex.

After last night's events and the alcohol finally wearing off, I can  finally think straight. As much as my body craves and desires Ceci, I  need to start thinking with my other head.

As soon as I arrive to work, I tell Erika to get me Ceci's file and her  guidance counselor on the phone. I was supposed to check her references  three weeks ago. And with the suspicion building up inside me, I have to  know. I need to know for certain that she is who she says she is to get  over this huge lump in my chest. I can't let my need for her take over  my ability to protect my father's company.

"Here you are, Mr. Leighton. Everything's in there." Erika gently places  the file on my desk and quietly leaves without another word. Let's just  say, she's been well-trained. I don't do small talk and chit-chat.

I immediately open it up and rack my brain about the details of her  interview. It wasn't that long ago, but for some reason, it feels  longer.

Casey West. 21. Senior. University of Nebraska.

I remember the exact way she looked the day of her interview.  Sophisticated and put together on the outside, fearless and strong on  the inside. A deadly combination …

I look over her transcripts, her letters of recommendation, and college  awards. It's obvious she's extremely bright. Her professors rave about  her skills, her ability to learn quickly, and her desire for journalism  and criminology. It's perfect.

Perhaps a little too perfect.

Thinking back to her, I decide to do a Facebook and Google search on  Ceci. Something I don't typically do on my colleagues because I don't  need to. Everything is usually broken down in the criminal background  and security check. Yet, nothing popped up for Ceci. Her record was  spotless.

I find Google records of her license, registration, and insurance. I  find a Twitter account that looks as if it has never been used, and a  Facebook account that's set to private. However, I notice the profile  picture isn't of her face. Her back is angled to the camera as her shirt  falls off her shoulder, her body turned away. Her hair is a darker  blonde and swept to one side with light curls.