Page 25 of Like A Moth To A Flame

And for what? To sell my dad’s house?

I didn’t have to do this. I could leave, go back home, and manage things from afar. I’m sure Barrett would help oversee anyone I hired.

That thought sent a fire of rage burning through me.

No. I wasn’t doing that. I wasn’t gonna let someone force me out of Cottonwood Falls. Not again. I’d done that before, even knowing the perpetrator was safely behind bars. I had let my fears and my bad memories force me out.

I wasn’t doing that again. I was going to fight, with everything in me, until my very last breath.

I threw back the comforter, scurried out of bed, and pulled on a pair of cut-off shorts, a tank top, and one of Dad’s old flannels. Somehow, having that part of him with me made me feel safer.

It took a little more than a grunt and some determination to move the dresser I’d used to barricade the door. Maybe my fear had made me stronger. Either way, I’d broken a sweat and a couple of nails by the time I finally moved it back into place.

Stepping out into the hallway, I stood in the dim light for a long while, listening to the sounds of the house and staring at the faded, green-striped wallpaper. When nothing sounded out of the ordinary, I made my way down the hallway and into Dad’s den. The pistol I’d found yesterday stayed right where I’d put it, in the top drawer of his desk beside the box of shells. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest place to keep it, now that I knew I could have someone sneaking around in the shadows.

I had a better place to keep it.

It took some trial and error, but I managed to pop the slide out and check the bullets. It was loaded.

This couldn’t be that complicated. I’d gone with my dad to the target range enough times to know how to use it—basically.

Point and squeeze.

Careful to keep my finger away from the trigger, I stuffed it down the back of my waistband for safekeeping.

Let him show up here now. I’d turn him into Swiss cheese and solve both of our problems.

Barrett had said to call him, but I wasn’t ready for company. I’d had more than enough of that for the entire past week, and I needed some time alone with myself, my memories, and my thoughts. I could do some cleaning by myself and leave the heavy lifting for when Barrett got here… maybe tomorrow?

Looking down, I saw the only other thing in my dad’s desk drawer and plucked it out. It was a tarnished brass key, scuffed and dirty. Did anything in this house even take a key like this? Where the hell had this come from? I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before.

While I wracked my brain, I pushed the key down the front of my shirt and into one cup of my bra. As my mom had always said—tits were nature’s pocketbook. If I found something I thought the key would fit, I’d try it then.

I busied myself with cleaning out the long, low bookshelf beneath the window. It was mostly old police manuals—some of which dated back to the 1940s. I’d keep those. They could be worth money. The rest were various copies of TV Guide and random magazines. Behind some of the books, I found a small stack of Playboys, and I gasped and squealed, tearing my hands back and wiping them across the carpet.

“Oh god, I touched that,” I squealed, shivering. “Please Dad, tell me you didn’t?!”

Pulling a nauseated face, I used a single finger to pull the wastepaper basket from under his desk to in front of the bookshelf and pushed them off of the shelf and into the garbage.

“Gross.”

I knew he was a man, and men had needs, but the last thing I wanted was to know anything about it.

It took me over an hour, but I finally got the bookshelf cleared. I checked every book, using my phone to do some research, and found a couple of Stephen King books that were first editions. I would keep those, too.

I piled everything else into whatever evidence boxes they would fit into and pulled the shelf away from the wall. It was cheap plywood, and the back was missing. I could carry it out to the curb myself. The minute I lifted it away from the wall, I stopped.

Laid into the floor beneath the shelf, the face of a safe glared up at me.

“What the fuck?” I muttered, placing the shelf off to one side. Had this always been here? I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before. It was deep, matte black, and looked new. Was this something that he’d had installed?

Unlike most safes I’d seen that had a digital reading and keypad, this one only had a single hole for a key. Reaching into my bra, I pulled out the key I’d found in his desk. I slid the key into the lock, and with a soft twist, it popped open. I pulled the door open carefully, almost afraid of what I would find. A small light clicked on inside, illuminating a stack of books and several overstuffedmanilla envelopes. I pulled out the stack of books first. They were small, leather-bound journals tied shut with long, twisted black shoelaces. I put them off to the side and reached back into the safe. The envelopes were heavier than they should have been, and it was a struggle to pull them out. I placed them on the carpet in front of my crossed legs and opened the first one.

It was a stack of papers, and right on top was the deed to the house, printed on tattered, yellowish paper. That saved me a little trouble, anyway. Next was his birth certificate, along with mine and mom’s. After that, the title to his car, still sitting in the barn outside. I continued to thumb through the papers, and nothing else seemed significant, so I sat them atop the desk to save for later.

The next envelope was full of bands of cash. After a few minutes, some cursing, and losing my place several times, I counted over one hundred thousand dollars, in different stacks of hundreds and fifties. Why was he keeping so much money in the house?

The next envelope was full of bank statements, and the numbers on them drenched me in a cold sweat. Dad had multiple millions of dollars in a bank account downtown. I had already been told that there was no will, but since I was the last surviving family member, everything was already mine.

---