*** NEW AND IMPROVED ***
With her father missing, Shay will do anything to get him back, even if that means teaming up with a cruel gang leader and his band of psychotic men.
CHARACTER VIEWS DO NOT REPRESENT MY OWN.
***WARNING*** OFFENSIVE CON...
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HADES: "Tell them that you weren't hungry, tell them you followed the pomegranate seeds because they tasted like blood, like love."
– Pauline Albanese, The Closed Doors
SO COLD
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the white woman was harsh-featured, wispy brown hair tied up in a messy bun, a smudge of eyeliner under both eyes, wet red mouth moving in a downwards scrawl. She shoved past me, heels click-clacking on the coffee-stained oak wood flooring, spinning around with her eyebrows furrowed over an inquisitive gaze. "How old are you?"
"Nineteen." I closed the front door, key in the lock, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
"And it took you over a day to realise your father was missing?" she was contemptuous and her tone was caustic.
"He wasn't here at breakfast yesterday. He sometimes leaves for work instead of eating with us. Then when I came back from college, I thought he was working late so I ordered a pizza for Seth and we watched TV and then went to sleep. I checked his bedroom this morning and it was locked, so I knocked on it. There was no response. So I went to the study and that was locked, too. I called him but it went straight to voicemail. Then I called you. Three hours ago." I pointed out to aunt Jade. "I've missed my morning lessons. I have exams coming soon. I took Seth to school and stopped by an ATM machine for the money he needed for his trip to London."
"Well fucking done. Pat yourself on the back. You've done a great job." She kicked off her heels, making her way to the kitchen. She clattered about in the cupboards, pouring herself a hefty glass of bourbon and sat on the leather stool by the marble breakfast counter. She drank it like it was water.
"This isn't my fault." I defended myself, forehead creasing. "He might be doing an all-nighter at work. It gets busy in the emergency room." I paused, watching her tilt the bottle into the glass once more. "He won't be happy you touched his liquor."
"Good thing he's not here, huh?" she heaved a sigh, straightening up and pulling out her smartphone from her bra. "OK, OK, I'll call his work and see if anyone has seen him." She looked at me, tone softer. "Stop worrying."
I didn't respond. I waited impatiently, digging a nail into the wooden frame of the door as I listened to her voice get higher, more feminine, as she spoke to a colleague – Alan Chrzanowski. Polish. I faintly recalled him as a thin man, with balding and greying hair that sat on top of his shiny head in wisps. Straight-bridged nose. Quivering voice.
She hummed, mouth in a thin-lipped smile. "I see. Thank you very much, Alan." She cut the call. "He hasn't been seen since Friday. Was he at work on Monday?"
I nodded. "At least he should've been." It was Wednesday.
She chewed on a nail out of nervous habit. "OK." She inhaled deeply, clearing her throat. She took her drink, and threw it back in one large gulp. The glass was slammed on the countertop. "Go to college. I'll sort this out. He'll be back by the end of the day."
"I'd rather stay home–"
"So you can pig out and watch TV all day? I don't think so. Come on. I want you out of this house in an hour."
I refused to budge. "When did you become so responsible? I've already emailed in to my tutor and said I'm sick. I can't have made a miraculous recovery in four hours. It's not believable."
"I won't have you in trouble for truancy. Your father would go crazy."
"Good thing he's not here, huh?" I shot back.
She clipped me around the ear as she headed back to the hallway. "Don't be rude. Get in the shower, Shay." She tried the handle of the study door. It remained locked and firm despite her shoulder barrelling into the door. "Shower. Now, Shay!" She was frustrated, verging on anger.
"What if he's in there?" I questioned, a foot on the first step of the stairs, a hand on the bannister. "Or in his bedroom." My implication was clear.
Worry washed over her features. She took out her phone, running up past me on the stairs, trying the handle to his bedroom. It jiggled. Locked. She called his name a few times, urgent despite the fact I already told her I had tried calling his name. Her phone was to her ear. "Police department." She waited for less than four seconds. I could hear the operator's clear greeting. A woman. 999. What is your emergency? "My brother is missing. Since yesterday. He could be in his bedroom or his study but both doors are locked and there's no response. No. I've just arrived at the house. He wouldn't normally – he has two kids, for Christ sake. I've tried calling him. I've already told you, he's not responding." OK, ma'am, if you could just stay calm. A babble too quick to hear. "Richard Canon. 81 Cross Lane, East Park, NO3 21W. If you could send someone – OK. OK. Thank you." She hung up.
"He's not suicidal."
"It's the anniversary of your mother's death. Isn't it?"
"Not for a week. But it's been years since she was killed."
"You know what your father is like," she raised her leg, slamming her heel into the space above the lock on the bedroom door. A grimace of pain skittered across her features, and she gritted her teeth. She hit the door again, foot slamming into the door.
I didn't say anything. She was right: I knew what he was like. Obsessive, vindictive and cruel. So there was some part of me that hoped it was too late as the sirens blared in the neighbourhood and there was a flash of blue and red lights across the front door. Some part of me that I wouldn't admit to for a very long time.
