least she’s comfortable and safe.
Seth turned on to Peachtree Street. His shoulders relaxed as he drew closer to home. Tomorrow was another challenge. Before his work shift at 11:00 a.m., he planned to visit Li Liu at his home in Kennesaw. The retired officer was expecting him.
It had been six years since his dad’s death, but Seth still cringed when he heard Mr. Liu’s voice over the phone. His father’s colleague had always been warm and supportive, but at this point in Seth’s life, it was just too familiar.
Mr. Liu’s voice had tripped that wire, the one holding everything together. Seth had pushed all reminders of his father into a mental box, locked away. He never opened that box. Not ever. But tomorrow he would be forced to cope with his sorrow and anger. His sister’s life depended on it.
* * *
Seth slept curled in a ball, blankets pulled over his head while morning light flooded into his sparse Buckhead apartment. He was on the black futon in his living room. When he opened his eyes, he was convinced workers were blasting dynamite inside his skull. He squinted as his eyes adjusted. The microwave clock in his galley kitchen told him it was time to get up.
He shook his head when he noticed a half bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream left on his coffee table. That explains the headache. He extricated himself from the blankets before stumbling toward the bathroom.
The warm spray from the shower did little for his headache. As he sang Linkin Park’s “What I’ve Done,” he felt a sensation rush up his spine as a high-pitched sound reached his waterlogged ears. He cracked the sliding door and peered out into the steam.
“Where did you come from?”
The neighbor’s cat, Cocoa, reposed on the toilet lid. She had been singing her eerie accompaniment to Chester Bennington’s lyrics of erasing himself and starting anew.
“This is not my life,” Seth said closing the door.
Cocoa shadowed him through the apartment as he finished getting ready. Seth donned the standard uniform of black pants and a white oxford shirt. The cat walked out the front door with him after a breakfast of tuna fish compliments of Chef Seth. He tried to prepare himself for his reunion with his dad’s ex-partner. He heard Mr. Liu had renovated an old farmhouse and kept horses.
But Seth wasn’t up for a pony ride. It felt more like he was hurtling down the first hill of a rollercoaster at Six Flags. Seth had been sixteen, Lily twenty, when Gerald Owens shot their father. The emotions were still so raw; they caused his stomach to drop, his body to experience a disorienting weightlessness.
Burping up banana, he leaned across to turn on the radio. Marilyn Manson’s “Beautiful People” blasted from the radio. Ah mind-numbing distraction. He didn’t need to think about the stranger who killed Barney, the police dog, and Arthur Moore. He turned up the volume, allowing the blaring guitar to clear his head as he sang along. It was a bit painful with his headache, but he preferred it to the other sensation.
His singing turned to swearing as he exited Interstate 75 by Town Center Mall. He gritted his teeth, weaving in and out of traffic until the congestion dispersed and he reached Stilesboro Road. Four miles further north, he saw red paint bleeding through the white blossoms of the Bradford pear trees. The barn told him he was in the right place as did the horseshoe archway over the entrance.
As he pulled in front of the gray ranch home, two German shepherds raced toward the car. The retired police dogs emitted that high-pitched cry a canine makes when it’s identified something irresistible. The flash of white teeth sent Seth dashing across the yard like a scared little girl. He rang the doorbell just as the larger dog pinned him against the side of the house. He felt its warm breath on his neck. The screen door creaked then Mr. Liu’s round face peered out.
“Tonka. Spike. Down!”
The dogs dropped to their bellies behind
Seth turned on to Peachtree Street. His shoulders relaxed as he drew closer to home. Tomorrow was another challenge. Before his work shift at 11:00 a.m., he planned to visit Li Liu at his home in Kennesaw. The retired officer was expecting him.
It had been six years since his dad’s death, but Seth still cringed when he heard Mr. Liu’s voice over the phone. His father’s colleague had always been warm and supportive, but at this point in Seth’s life, it was just too familiar.
Mr. Liu’s voice had tripped that wire, the one holding everything together. Seth had pushed all reminders of his father into a mental box, locked away. He never opened that box. Not ever. But tomorrow he would be forced to cope with his sorrow and anger. His sister’s life depended on it.
* * *
Seth slept curled in a ball, blankets pulled over his head while morning light flooded into his sparse Buckhead apartment. He was on the black futon in his living room. When he opened his eyes, he was convinced workers were blasting dynamite inside his skull. He squinted as his eyes adjusted. The microwave clock in his galley kitchen told him it was time to get up.
He shook his head when he noticed a half bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream left on his coffee table. That explains the headache. He extricated himself from the blankets before stumbling toward the bathroom.
The warm spray from the shower did little for his headache. As he sang Linkin Park’s “What I’ve Done,” he felt a sensation rush up his spine as a high-pitched sound reached his waterlogged ears. He cracked the sliding door and peered out into the steam.
“Where did you come from?”
The neighbor’s cat, Cocoa, reposed on the toilet lid. She had been singing her eerie accompaniment to Chester Bennington’s lyrics of erasing himself and starting anew.
“This is not my life,” Seth said closing the door.
Cocoa shadowed him through the apartment as he finished getting ready. Seth donned the standard uniform of black pants and a white oxford shirt. The cat walked out the front door with him after a breakfast of tuna fish compliments of Chef Seth. He tried to prepare himself for his reunion with his dad’s ex-partner. He heard Mr. Liu had renovated an old farmhouse and kept horses.
But Seth wasn’t up for a pony ride. It felt more like he was hurtling down the first hill of a rollercoaster at Six Flags. Seth had been sixteen, Lily twenty, when Gerald Owens shot their father. The emotions were still so raw; they caused his stomach to drop, his body to experience a disorienting weightlessness.
Burping up banana, he leaned across to turn on the radio. Marilyn Manson’s “Beautiful People” blasted from the radio. Ah mind-numbing distraction. He didn’t need to think about the stranger who killed Barney, the police dog, and Arthur Moore. He turned up the volume, allowing the blaring guitar to clear his head as he sang along. It was a bit painful with his headache, but he preferred it to the other sensation.
His singing turned to swearing as he exited Interstate 75 by Town Center Mall. He gritted his teeth, weaving in and out of traffic until the congestion dispersed and he reached Stilesboro Road. Four miles further north, he saw red paint bleeding through the white blossoms of the Bradford pear trees. The barn told him he was in the right place as did the horseshoe archway over the entrance.
As he pulled in front of the gray ranch home, two German shepherds raced toward the car. The retired police dogs emitted that high-pitched cry a canine makes when it’s identified something irresistible. The flash of white teeth sent Seth dashing across the yard like a scared little girl. He rang the doorbell just as the larger dog pinned him against the side of the house. He felt its warm breath on his neck. The screen door creaked then Mr. Liu’s round face peered out.
“Tonka. Spike. Down!”
The dogs dropped to their bellies behind
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