Page 77 of Wicked Minds
It takes a few minutes for me to fit my large frame through the small window without getting stuck or making a noise, but eventually, my boots plant on the soft carpet. The room is cloaked in shadow, and I pause, giving my eyes time to adjust as I listen intently to the rhythm of my surroundings.
Outlines of furniture come into focus, and I glance around the small room. Pink walls and sheets on the bed declare it as achild’s bedroom, and I falter, realizing I’m standing in Aurora’s room.
It’s surreal, only driving home the reality of this entire situation as I take in the wall behind the bed, adorned with wallpaper featuring unicorns, fluttering butterflies, and vibrant rainbows.
A fresh, coarse wave of anger crashes over me. Who keeps a child from their mother? What Riley’s mom has been doing is blackmail. She’s essentially holding Aurora hostage… in exchange for money? It’s gotta be more than that, but what?
The need to know drives me forward…
It’s a paranoia born from having everything you thought you knew ripped out from beneath your feet. From having someone you’d known your entire life turn around and accuse you of such a disgustingly heinous crime that you can’t even comprehend what’s happening.
Now, I make sure I vet every single person I cross paths with.
It’s become an obsession. The fear of being caught unawares like that again means I crave the control of knowing everything about everyone in my life. It’s why I took it upon myself to not only harass Riley at the club but stalk her every move.
I know that, until this week, she ate all her meals in the dining hall.
I know that she lives off-campus because this year’s scholarship didn’t include accommodations, and it’s a struggle for her to pay the rent monthly.
I know that her two friends are Tara from the club and a woman in her building, along with her five-year-old daughter—which makes a hell of a lot more sense now that I know Riley’s secret.
I know that she keeps everything bottled up inside until she can pour every ounce of it out in the dance studio.
I know that her favorite color is pink, and her secret pleasures are fantasy books and pumpkin spice lattes.
And I know on which days her past is closest to the surface because those are the days when she’s more withdrawn and wears makeup to hide the purple rings beneath her eyes.
This woman I know, like the palm of my hand, can read so intuitively that words aren’t required… I saw the embarrassment in her posture as she discussed what she believed was her failing as a mother and her gritty determination to win Aurora back.
Which is why I’m here… standing in her daughter’s bedroom in the middle of the night. To better understand a situation that I fear Riley has glossed over, so I can better ensure that the warrior of a woman doesn’t have to wait four more years before she canstart savingto get her daughter back.
Looking around the room, my gaze catches on a single teddy bear propped up in pride of place against the pillows, and I find myself drawn closer, my boots padding silently across the thick carpet until I can stretch out a hand and lift it.
My eyes run over the Halston U t-shirt he’s wearing, and I’m hit with the sudden image of a teary-eyed Riley giving this to her daughter before heading off to college. The sacrifice she’s making, being away from her daughter—trusting her mother with her care—while she works to create a better life for them.
I can’t begin to imagine how challenging it must be for her, regardless of the good intentions behind her actions.
Setting the bear back where I found it, the toe of my boot knocks against something beneath the bed, and I lower to my knees. My fingers brush against a box and I grip it, dragging it out.
It looks like a shoebox that has been glitterized. Wrapped in pink paper and covered in sprinkles and stickers, the wordsAurora’s & Mommy’s box of memoriesis scrawled across the top in Riley’s familiar handwriting.
A lump forms in my throat as I run a humbled hand over the words, imagining the two of them working on this together before Riley left for Halston. A box of keepsakes and memories for Aurora to pull out when she missed her mom.
I hesitate, reluctant to intrude while also wanting to insert myself into their happiness, before gingerly lifting the lid and sinking onto the edge of the bed. Using the flashlight on my phone, I peek inside. My lips twitch at the top photo—Riley and Aurora grinning at the camera, covered in paint and looking like mischief incarnate.
Setting it aside, the next one is a photo of them at some sort of fair. Another is of her daughter’s third birthday. In every single one, it’s just the two of them, happy and laughing. Their happiness is infectious, and I find myself wishing I could have been there, lurking in the background, and seen these moments for myself. Amongst the photos are tokens—stubs from aPaw Patrolmovie, tickets for what I’m guessing is the same carnival as in the pictures, and a bead bracelet, the vibrant colors faded as though it’s been worn excessively.
With the box on my lap, I take another look around the darkened room, noticing how no photos are adorning the dresser or walls. There is nothing for the little girl to look at when she misses her mom. No remnants of these happy moments. In fact, bar a small pile of toys in one corner of the room and a few books stacked on the bedside table, the rest is surprisingly empty for a child’s bedroom.
Frowning now, I replace the lid with care and slide the box under the bed where I found it. With a niggling in my gut, I move to the bedroom door, opening it a crack before pausing to listen for any sounds.
Blissful, empty silence.
Stepping out of the room, I navigate through the unfamiliar space, steps cautious and deliberate as I prowl through the house, peering into drawers and opening cupboards.
The final room I look into is a small office, and I step inside, closing the door behind me as I run my gaze over the shelves stacked with various files and folders. Flipping through one, it’s filled with credit card bills. I snap a photo of them, but nothing raises any alarm bells—other than the fact Riley’s mom has a serious spending habit.Is that why she’s consistently hitting Riley up for money?
Setting the folder back on the shelf, I turn toward a laptop sitting on the desk. Pulling out of the chair, I lower myself into it and open the laptop.
