Page 26 of Like A Moth To A Flame

I sucked in a deep, shaking breath and shook my head.

All these years, Dad had never told me.

Then, a sudden thought struck me

Maybe I didn’t have a stalker at all. Maybe I was wrong.

What if, whoever this was, knew about the money, and was willing to go through me to get it?

A shiver crawled up my spine, and I set the envelope aside, beside the other one. Right now was not the time to think of that. Right now, I needed coffee.

Piling the journals in my arms, I stood up and made my way out of the room, making my way downstairs. I didn’t bother to put the money or the envelopes back where I had found them. I didn’t need to. I had protection now.

As I stepped past, I sat the journals on the kitchen table and immediately turned to the coffee pot. A few scoops, splashes of water, and mug selection later, I had my steaming hot mug and was ready to look at whatever Dad had written in these books.

Sitting the steaming mug on the table, I took up the first journal and began to untie the lace. It took some frustration and more than a few curse words. He hadn’t wanted anyone to get into this. The first page was marked with a four, dated April 17th, 2014.

Four? That must mean this was the fourth journal, right? Untying the next one, I discovered I was right. Before reading, I’d have to put them all in order.

A few minutes later, it was done. I had them laid out left to right, oldest to newest.

I took a deep drink of my coffee. Was it right for me to go through these? Was it an invasion of his privacy, even if he was gone and buried? What would I find, and would it be something I would wish I never read?

His therapist had suggested he start journaling after losing mom, as a way to vent his frustrations since he had lost the person he loved, and his support system. He’d suggested the same thing to me, but as a temperamental pre-teen, I’d opted out.

Now that I was older, I wish I hadn’t.

Steeling myself, I opened the first journal.

It was dated just a month after Mom’s death, December 2008. Just seeing the date brought back the memories and set me on edge. Maybe I still hadn’t come to terms with it myself.

I am so proud of my daughter. She is the strongest person I know, and certainly stronger than I am. She’s been there for me through all of this, even when I wasn’t there for her. I will do better. We will get better.

I could feel the tears swimming in my eyes, and I had to fight to blink them back. I was so mad at myself. I was mad about moving so far away. I was mad that I let a stupid fight keep us from talking for years, and I was mad that I wasn’t there for him when he needed me the most.

He died alone, and that was my fault.

Once I managed to get a hold of myself, I continued to read. I flipped through the journals, reading every word I could get my hands on. Maybe, in a way, it would make up for what I had lacked. I smiled at some pages and cried at others. I had good memories and bad, guilt and pride. It was a melting pot of emotions that I had to try my best to wade through.

I read for so long, that I ignored the growling in my stomach and hours passed with each flipped page. I downed my cup of coffee and didn’t bother to stand up and get another one. It could wait. I had to do this for Dad.

I only paused when I made it to one of the last entries in the journal. It was written in the summer of 2015, and it mentionedthe Firefly arsonist. Odd, I don’t remember him mentioning it to me way back then. It wasn’t until I read the last paragraph that I became more confused than I thought was possible.

…and while I can’t say I understand why he’s doing it, I told him I could look the other way as long as no one got hurt. He’s like a son to me, and after everything he’s done for this family, I feel it’s not my place to come down on him like a hammer.

Everyone has their demons.

I sat there, staring at the passage over and over again, and trying to get it to make sense. So he not only knew who the arsonist was, he supported his crimes? I read the passage one more time just to make sense of it in my head.

My dad, the strict and sullen police officer who believed in justice above all else, knew who the arsonist was, and was just… allowing him to continue?

That couldn’t be right. I had to be reading this wrong.

Closing the journal, I sat it down on the table, running my hands through my hair. I was more confused than ever, and somehow I had a feeling this was one riddle I’d never have an answer to.

“Dad, what the hell?” I asked out loud. A loud growl from my stomach interrupted my thoughts. I looked up, catching sight of the clock on the wall. It was 7:30 at night. I had spent all day reading and cleaning, and aside from coffee, hadn’t put anything in my stomach. I sighed, standing from the table and moving across the room to the fridge to throw a sandwich together. I wasn’t inthe mood to cook or go out. I just needed something to quiet the painful grumbles.

I realized I had a headache after the first bite, and I groaned.

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