Unable to Resist (27 page)

I’m standing here, powerless to move.

Duane places his hand on my shoulder, and my body melts. Internally screaming at my body to listen to me, I reach for the knob.

You can do this, Ann. You need to find some peace.

Find peace, find peace.

My mantra. I repeat it over and over while slowly stepping down the stairs.

When I reach the floor, my eyes shoot straight to the piece of carpet in his office that has been cut out because…I’m sure you can figure out where I found Dad. I divert my eyes.

Pictures of question marks adorn the walls. I head toward them with urgency and begin to look behind each one.

“What are you doing?” Duane asks.

I lift up another picture. “You know the dreams I’ve been having? Dad keeps telling me that the answers are in the questions. I think maybe it has something to do with all of the question marks he has down here.”

Duane quirks an eyebrow and looks around. “It does seem a tad obsessive. Do you think it has anything to do with what Brent heard his dad say?”

I bite the inside of my lip. “Maybe. I just have no idea what I’m really looking for.”

I count the pictures. Fourteen. He has fourteen question mark pictures hanging on the walls. There are also two sitting on the bar, and a couple figurines on the coffee table in front of the flat screen. Obsessive might be an understatement.

“I didn’t think it was odd when I was living here, but being away, and seeing them for the first time in a long while, it does seem bizarre,” Admitting it, I’m hoping it does actually mean my search will produce something.

“Why question marks?” Duane asks.

I shrug a shoulder. “It was his company logo. Another reason why it never seemed odd.”

I lift up the second to last frame on the wall, and find what I’m looking for. A safe.

I try the first numbers that come to mind. No luck.

Figures.

I try my birthday, Dad’s birthday and then Mom’s, but nothing works. I try random numbers he used at the company, and I’m still met with the annoying beep of the incorrect code.

“Maybe he wrote it down somewhere,” Duane offers.

It’s pulling at straws, but I’m desperate, so I walk around the room, looking for any sort of clues.

A stack of papers on the bar prove to be a dead end and the notebook sitting on the coffee table doesn’t have anything written in it at all. The blank pages mock me.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t look at the notebook anymore. I slam it shut.

The white board on the wall has stained marker all over it, but it’s all too smudged to read. I pound my fist on the wall.

“Hey,” Duane touches my shoulder, “sit down, we’ll figure it out.”

Sitting myself down on the couch, a plume of dust puffs through the air and I rub my forehead. “I don’t know if I can figure out the combination, Duane. Maybe we should just go,” I profess, defeated.

Duane sits next to me and throws his arm over my shoulder. “We aren’t giving up. You just need to think. Is there any possible way you’re forgetting something?”

Dad had two safes at the office, both of which I knew the combinations. He had one at the house in Colorado but I never had a reason to open that one. Then there’s this one behind the damn picture—I didn’t even know he had it. I tried every possible number I knew that was connected to those safes.

“I guess, but I can’t imagine the numbers he’d use.” I lift my arms up, allowing them to crash back down on the dusty couch.

I look around the basement.

Stupid question marks. They are seriously pissing me off now that they are taunting me. I count them again.

Fourteen.

Not saying anything, I walk to Dad’s office. He has five question mark pictures.

What the hell?

I walk back out, and count the figurines sitting around the basement. Four.

Fourteen, Five, Four.

Maybe….?

I rush to the safe and lock in the numbers, the whole time Duane watches me as I work.

Shit, it still doesn’t work. I try it in another sequence.

Five right, fourteen left, four right.

Click.

The freaking safe opens. It opens!

I could do a backflip right now. I won’t, because, well—I’d probably break something, but you know what I mean.

Duane is somewhere behind me, turned away. I gesture for him, not taking my eyes away from the safe. For all I know, I could look away and it’ll be closed again.

“Duane!” I shout. “Cowboy!”

Duane rushes to my side. “Holy shit, Red, you did it. How did you figure it out?”

I grab the red question mark USB that’s been locked away all this time, and close the safe.

“I think it’s a very good possibility Dad was crazy. I counted the pictures in this room, his office, and the figurines. I tried those numbers until they worked. I honestly have no idea how I did it, but it worked. Holy shit, Duane. It worked.”

“I’m so proud of you, Red. So, now what?” He questions with eager wonder, eyeing the USB in my hand.

Last night’s dream comes to mind and I think I finally know what Dad wanted me to figure out.

“You know how I told how I’ve been dreaming about my dad?”

Duane nods in agreement.

“This morning, I dreamt about Dad, again.” I gulp passed the knot in my throat. “In the dream, I found a red question mark program on his computer. I tried to access it, but I couldn’t get in. I think this,” I hold up the red USB, “might be the key.”

We walk into Dad’s office, and, unlike my dream, the computer is off. I hit the button and wait for it to power up.

As soon as the machine lets me, I dive into its contents. It takes me a few minutes to look around his computer, but I find the program in a hidden corner. If the computer were a room, the program would have been lost earrings hidden in the dark corner behind furniture. It was stored well, and most people wouldn’t have been able to find it, but I know how Dad’s mind works—worked. You know what I mean.

I click on the icon, and it refuses to open. I click it over and over again, thinking if I piss it off enough, it’ll open.

With his hands on my shoulders, Duane laughs. “Maybe you want to try the USB now, Red?”

I look over at him, and smile. He gives me a gentle nudge.

I plug the USB into the tower of the computer and watch the program come to life.

Dad was a sneaky, sneaky bastard.

Files upon files load on the screen in front of my eyes. There are far too many to figure out what each of them does, so I click on the first one my mouse hits as they layer themselves on the monitor.

The screen turns black.

I turn to look at Duane, but he’s staring at the screen with a creased brow. My head turns back and a video plays.

My seventeen-year-old self walks in the front door, and I head to my room. All the way, cameras follow me.

Holy shit.

Security cameras were in the house.

“There aren’t any cameras in your room are there?” Duane asks, sounding a little pissed.

I cover my mouth with my hand in surprise, and shake my head. “I don’t know.”

The camera follows me to my door, and then cuts back to the front door. That must be a no. Thank goodness.

I fast forward.

Two hours later, I leave my room, and head to the kitchen.

I sit for a while.

Fast forward.

Jason comes through the front door. It seems like any kind of movement triggers a camera.

I keep watching.

Nothing exciting happens. Jason and I sit at the island in the kitchen, eat and talk.

Fast forward
.

Kyle walks in and meets us in the living room to watch TV. An unexpected cry bursts from my body at the sight of him.

Duane wraps his arms around my neck, and kisses the side of my head.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and take in his gesture—so full of love and comfort.

Fast forward. I can’t watch anymore.

I end the video and am brought back to the screen full of files. As I study the numbers more closely, I figure something out.

I point to the screen. “Duane, look. Those numbers make up a date. See that?”

He bends down with his hands still on my shoulders and studies the numbers. “I’ll be damned, they do. It’s out of order, but it’s a date for sure.”

Shit.

I scour the files, looking for that dreaded date.

When I finally find what I’m looking for, the mouse pointer hovers over it, and I can’t seem to click the file.

“You don’t have to do this. I can watch it,” he sweetly offers, worry etching his every word.

I know if I don’t see it, whatever
it
is, I’ll never be able to let it go. Tears spring from my eyes again and I wipe my nose. “No, I need to watch it.”

Duane’s mouth forms a straight line, indicating he doesn’t like the idea, but nods anyway.

I force my finger to open the file, and the screen goes black.

Five fifteen, on the dot, Dad walks in the door. With his business suit on and briefcase in hand, he opens the door and enters, but not before looking over both shoulders.

It strikes me odd that he actually dressed up to go to the office. I don’t remember him ever taking a trip to the office in anything but jeans and a t-shirt.

The cameras follow him to the kitchen. He sets his briefcase on the island and takes a shot of some sort of brown liquid. Probably bourbon. He picks up his briefcase after leaning on the counter for a moment, as if he was thinking, and walks to the basement. Again, he checks over his shoulder. He walks down the stairs, straight to the safe and opens the lock, confirming the red USB is indeed there.

Once he closes the safe’s door, he heads to his office. He sits at his desk, and brings his hands to his face. He begins to sob into his hands, shaking uncontrollably.

I look away. I can’t stand to see my strong dad look like a broken man. When I hear him sniffle one last time, I chance a look back to the screen.

He’s stopped crying, but his shoulders are sagged and he looks beaten down. I hadn’t noticed it before. I had lost Kyle and I was totally introverted. I couldn’t come out of my sadness enough to see that my dad was in serious hurt.

Geeze, I’m a shitty daughter.

Dad stands up, takes his sport coat off, and hangs it on the back of the door. Then he checks outside the door. Waiting for someone, maybe?

He visibly breathes a huge sigh of relief and sits back at his desk.

Picking up the phone, he hits the speaker button and dials.

“Hey, Dad,” My eighteen-year-old self answers.

I can hear the sadness seeping through the speaker. Chills run through my blood at the memory. I can’t believe I didn’t remember talking to him that night.

Dad smiles at my voice. “Hi, sweet pea. What are you doing?”

“I’m at Jason’s. We have auditions tomorrow, is it alright if I stay here tonight?”

Dad’s smile falters and he crinkles his forehead. “Sure. Be safe, okay? And break a leg tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.” Another tear falls from his cheek, and he hangs up the receiver.

“Well, wasn’t that sweet,” someone says from the door.

I can’t see him, but the look on Dad’s face tells me all I need to know. Whoever the intruder is, he isn’t someone Dad wants to see. The color drains from his face and he sits up straighter, trying to make himself appear bigger.

“You need to go. Now. I’ll have the police here in two minutes,” Dad says as his voice waivers, hand already hovering over the phone.

The man at the door laughs a malevolent sneer and ultimately steps into view.

With dark, slicked-back hair, a trench coat and boots, the man looks threatening, even from behind. Yet, very familiar. His head ticks a bit, and he turns around to close the door. The tick gives him away, but I need to see his face. I already know who it is, but dammit, I want to be wrong. When his face is in plain view, I bolt to the computer screen.