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.