What Lies Beneath

Twenty-One

Darkness blanketed the sky as the sun finally called it quits for today. I ran as far as my legs would take me, unable to catch my breath. Several feet ahead, I could make out the outline of my house. I bent over and tugged the straps of my bookbag tighter over my shoulders. My lungs burned with desperation telling me to slow down. After all, I couldn't move if I couldn't breathe. And I needed to move if I wanted to get home fast enough.

I hated to admit it but something Cecilia said in the midst of her venting stuck with me. The fact that she'd visited her father in the junkyard. That meant he'd either worked there, owned it, or happened to be there for a reason that specific day. Whatever the case, he had access to the junkyard at some point in time. Not to mention, Lake Bellinor's junkyard was open to all residents, and the gates were always open to collect the scraps being dumped there.

And so I figured, where everyone had access, anyone could hide a car. I couldn't stop thinking about Cecilia's story either. As plausible as it was, there were a few pieces that I couldn't pair up with any of Iris' actions. Maybe the real reason behind Iris' refusal to enter the library, or to interact with Mrs. Carol, or to even allow Emerald to interact with her, had more to do with her own guilt. I'd even go as far as to mention her own anger. But anger towards who? Herself?

"God dammit." Those two simple words left my mouth in a muffled groan, when I got close enough to the house, to take notice of the car that I feared would be in our driveway. My bedroom light shined through the panels of my window. I could see the dark silhouette of a figure through the closed curtains. Whoever it was, was posted in the middle of my bedroom. Of course, the figure was too tall to be Junior. And it most certainly wasn't my mother or father. Based on the 1996 Chevrolet parked beside my mother's car, I'd say I knew exactly who it was.

I could only imagine the kind of rage and disappointment awaiting me in that house. The hardest part was convincing myself that I was ready to face it. Needless to say, I wasn't.

The second I snuck in through the front door, slipping my sneakers off to lessen the creak in my step, Spongebob Squarepants theme song blasted from the living room. I let my eyes wander between the kitchen and the living room. Junior lay slouched in the middle of the couch, his body folding into the cushions. From where I stood, he appeared to be asleep and I didn't want to risk waking him. So, I tried my best to tip-toe past the living room, into the staircase.

The same light I saw brightening my room from outside illuminated one section of the dark hallway. My bedroom door was wide open. I laid my sneakers beside the wall, sauntering as slow as I could to the door. Christian's back was facing me when I stuck my head in for a peek. His head was tilted to the side; his hands folded behind his head, fingers fidgeting in his hair.

Christian only did things like that when he was stressed. In this case, he was probably beyond stressed. I'd learned the patterns by now considering I stressed him out a good amount. Failure to pay attention to him would cause small details such as that to go unnoticed. I opened my mouth to grab his attention but something else grabbed mine. There were several pictures laid out in a messy pile on the edge of my bed. What in the world was that?

I stretched on the tips of my toes in an attempt to see the pictures better.

The last thing I expected to see was pictures of us together. And by us, I meant Christian, Junior, and myself. The first picture on top of the pile consisted of us standing in a row, grinning like the little kids we were. From the looks of it, we were soaked that day. Junior didn't look any older than five-years-old. It was funny to think Christian was taking a trip down memory lane.

"Shit, Tyler! Make some noise or something! I could've shot you!" Christian's outburst startled me so much I jumped back as though someone had lit a flame under my ass. His hand gripped the gun handle at the side of his hip. I'd been so engrossed in the picture I hadn't realized I'd been caught red-handed.