this and knowing your younger brother… Swallowing back the tears, I push through, needing to know more and understanding why Cody would hide this box away.
It’s heartbreaking to the point that I almost miss the other names. The other boys who were abducted, including one named Marcus.
A sharp, frigid cold pricks down my spine and the lights seem darker as I read the black printed text on off-white paper, aged from sitting in a box, buried in a stack of articles that have yellowed.
Marcus Henry. The reports say he died but his body was never found. Only teeth and bones, which the police took as evidence of his passing.
Only one child made it out alive. I knew that; Cody told me.
I can’t shake the name of the smallest and youngest child, or his photo from evidence, barely a photo with how difficult it is to see his face, staring back at me in black and white. He’s a little boy in an oversized baseball jersey, holding a bat. I can barely make out any details of him. But the writing is easily read. Only eight years old when the picture was taken, according to the script on the back of the photo. And next to his age, his name: Marcus. It can’t be him. He’s dead and it’s just a name.
Rubbing both of my hands down my face I try to pull myself together. I wish I hadn’t drunk the wine. I wish I could get the hell out of my own head. I can’t breathe, I can barely see straight.
What the fuck am I doing? I shouldn’t be going through Cody’s things. This is a box of what he has left of his brother, I inwardly scold myself. Hating all of this.
He’s protecting me and I’m violating his privacy. Oh my God, what came over me?
What the hell is wrong with me? As I frantically pile the papers in the stack they were in and place them back in the box, a small picture slips out, in black and white.
Two boys, with the tallest maybe ten years old, and the other a few years younger. Cody. Cody and his brother, Christopher, both the spitting image of the man behind them. Maybe their uncle.
The sight of the two of them together only heightens the guilt I have of betraying Cody’s trust and rummaging through his things. What right do I have to go through his personal belongings?
Jesus Christ, what has gotten into me?
He lost his brother and these poor boys were murdered, yet here I am concocting some sort of connection with a man who broke in and kissed me in Cody’s kitchen. I’m disgusted with myself. I’ve truly lost it. It’s all I can think as I shake my head and brush away the tears from under my eyes.
I have to move the ottoman before I can shut the closet door. I’m halfway through the hallway, dragging the heavy thing back to the living room when I hear the front door open.
“Delilah?” Cody’s voice is hesitant.
I don’t call out, “In here,” until the ottoman is back where it should be. My heart races and I know it looks like I’ve been crying when Cody steps into the doorframe, looking all sorts of the handsome man I fell for years ago. With grocery bags in both hands and shadows under his eyes, gratitude and unworthiness wrap themselves around me.
“Baby,” he says and his voice drowns in agony as he drops the bags where he stands and eats up the distance between us before I can even take in a staggering breath. All I see in his face is his brother. “Why are you crying?”
I don’t want to lie. I can’t lie anymore, but I don’t tell him the truth either, I simply shake my head, burying it into his chest and attempting to calm myself down.
This is what rock bottom must feel like.
I cry for him and for this craziness that’s taken me over, but mostly I cry for his brother and the other little boys.
“I’m sorry,” I finally answer and wipe away the tears. I don’t need to be even more of a mess than I already am. “I’m sorry, I just I couldn’t sleep and I got to drinking.” That’s when I realize I didn’t tell him about the wine. I didn’t tell anyone.
With both palms pressed to my eyes, I pray for sanity. For all of this to end.