52 Barn Street

◾CHAPTER X◾

How would I explain being up and wide awake at 3:30 in the morning?

It was simple: nightmares. They haunted me every single night since I returned to Aldwell and always left me feeling breathless and shaken. But they weren't the most important things on my mind so I brushed them all aside as soon as I woke up.

The conversation I had had with Officer Conway the previous day kept playing on repeat in my head. It got me seriously thinking: Where did my father hide all the information he had dug up on the black guns?
Could Hannah Croft and Michael Allan-Fayemi possibly involved with the black guns?

Unfortunately for me, I was getting more questions than answers. Tired of tossing around on my bed—I wasn't getting any more sleep—I ventured downstairs and into our tight car garage with a cup of coffee in hand.

The garage looked smaller than I last remembered. I preferred to park my car out on the driveway. It was dark, dusty and filled to the brim with cobwebs due to long time disuse.
Venturing into dark, creepy rooms has become my thing now, it seems.

I hoped to find something down here—something of value or at least a clue that would point me in the right direction. An unused garage is a good place to hide something you'd rather people not see, I reasoned. So I meticulously searched the entire place, top to bottom, leaving no stone unturned.

Almost three unproductive hours of sifting through garage junk and old items with no such luck, I was frustrated to say the least.

My hopes were increasingly trimming as the only things I had managed to come across were; irrelevant papers, old invoices, tax documents, some hand tools and random knick-knacks that should be thrown off and lastly, my father's old classical music records collection, I had no idea he kept those.

My chest tightened. Officer Conway was wrong; I didn't know my father as much as everyone thought I did. Guilt settled in the pits of my stomach.

At this point, it was a little past daybreak and I was sweaty, tired and not to mention utterly defeated. “There has to be something. I...just know!” I said out loud to no one in particular. It sounded more like I was trying to convince myself of that. “Please give me a sign or a clue, Dad.” I murmured under my breath with a sigh. My gaze swept over the mess I had made of the garage as gentle footsteps approached.

“You've been up for long, dear.” My mother calmly stepped into the garage.

“I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“None of that. I was up early too so I decided to do some baking.” She wrapped her arms around her torso.

“I love it when you bake, mum. I can't wait to get my hands on those.” As if in response, my stomach audibly growled.

“I see you've found your father's record collection. He loved those things,I tell you.” A fond smile played on her lips.

“I never knew he had a collection.” Sadness crept into my voice.

“You know, before your father joined the force, he had always dreamt of being a jazz musician. He loved jazz and country music. But between me and you, we both know that your father has always had a terrible voice.” We both laughed at the memory.

“I remember that.” I wiped colour of my eyes with my fingers. As I said before, treacherous tear glands. “I still miss him, mum.” I sniffed.

“Oh, honey.” She drew me into her arms in a bone-crushing hug. “That makes both of us.”

My mother, Millicent Shepherds, had managed to age, more than she ever had in her whole life, in just one year. Wrinkles around her once bright but now sullen eyes deepened considerably.