An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
The screen pops off, revealing a dirty window with curtains drawn across the glass. I step onto a broken portable AC to give myself some height, then slide the window open and climb into the house.
Before my feet hit the musty carpet, I know I'm in my father's old bedroom. There's a staleness to the air, like it hasn't been disturbed in years. Dust floats across my vision, landing on the scant surfaces—a dresser, a nightstand, and a twin bed with plain sheets. The comforter is army green, and twisted into a heap as if my dad simply woke up one morning and decided to never come back.
In a way, I suppose he did.
At seventeen, my father moved in with his pregnant girlfriend and her family. Two months after Momma gave birth, Mason left for college and never returned. Sure, he visits on holidays and birthdays, but those are semantics.
I'm grateful Randolph Reeves left the bedroom untouched. It's a literal window into my father's past. Momma never talks about Mason's childhood, apart from her relationship with him. She warned me and Aidan to never visit Randolph, but she didn't give us a reason. She didn't say Mason was a victim of child abuse.
It explains his absence, but doesn't justify it.
The dresser catches my attention first. More specifically, the boombox on top of it. I cross the room, careful to keep my tread light. The door is shut, but I can hear ESPN blaring from the television in what I assume is the living room. These houses all have the same floor plan, and I've been in Payton's enough to know the layout.
Old school CDs are propped on the dresser, braced against the wall. I brush my thumb over the artist's names, recognizing most of them. They're primarily rock, with a few hip-hop and R&B to round out the collection. He even has Britney Spears, but I wonder if that belonged to Momma.
There's a framed photo of Mason and my mom on the bedside table. Aside from the picture and music collection, the room lacks personality. Most likely, this was a place for Mason to change clothes or lay his head when he had nowhere else to go. A last resort.
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I press a button on the boombox, and the ancient machine bursts to life. The speakers vibrate, blasting Slipknot at full volume. I yank the power cord, ripping it from the wall. My heart pounds an erratic rhythm against my breastbone. I wait, straining my ears for the sound of approaching footsteps.
But if there's anyone in the living room, they didn't hear.
I take that as a good omen, and continue my perusal. I slide the closet door open, revealing a small collection of mundane clothing. There are a few Pemberton uniforms, as well as a football jersey with the name 'Reeves' printed across the back. It's riddled with grass stains.
