Page 1 of Under Your Scars

PROLOGUE

THE FATHER

I’ve learned after eighty-seven years on this earth to trust my gut in all things.

Where my son is concerned, I’ve become clairvoyant.

At my age, I’ve got nothing better to do all day than make peace with death. I can smell it. Always polluting the corridors of my home like a miasma of despair.

I can feel his pain lingering in the air long before I see him.

Tonight though, I do not feel his pain. Not a physical pain, anyways. More akin to…frigid anguish.

It feels like guilt. It feels like horror.

It feels like resignation.

My bones are aching something fierce. I can feel something wrong deep in the pit of my stomach, causing me to clutch my rosary to my chest. I take a deep breath as I sit up from my bed, my knees cracking loudly as I use my walker to steady myself. I can’t walk very well on my own anymore, but something gives me the strength to stand and step into the corridor.

My son isn’t here.He’s never here at night. His absence in the dark doesn’t bother me. Never has. What bothers me is his bedroom door. It’s fully ajar. He never leaves it open.

My walker clacks against the tile floors as I slowly make my way to the open bedroom door, tapping on the wooden frame with my knuckle as I peek in.Empty. Like it always is.

There’s a piece of paper neatly laid on the edge of his bed, the creamy custom embossed parchment a stark contrast to the burgundy comforter. My heart sinks, and I rush over to it as fast as my old legs will carry me.I know what this is before I even read the first line.

Wherever my son has gone, I’m already too late.

Friday,September 6,2019.

I,Christian Thomas Reeves,being of unsound mind and a broken spirit,declare this my last will and testament,as well as a goodbye.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

THE ANGEL

I glance at the clock in the bottom corner of my computer. It’s 8:37 PM on a Friday night. I groan quietly to myself. I’ve been at this desk in this uncomfortable office chair since nine this morning. You’d think with all the money flowing in and out of this place, they’d be able to provide their staff with chairs that don’t cause early-onset arthritis. I take an exhausted breath and finish up an email to my boss, Neil, before shutting down my computer and grabbing my things.

Five months ago, I landed this job out of pure dumb luck. I applied for an open position at Reeves Enterprises to be a secretary for one of the senior attorneys. During my third round of interviews, I bombed it. Hard. My nerves got the best of me, and I formed one coherent sentence through the entire thing.

That sentence was my name.

Good morning.My name is Elena Young.I want to work at Reeves Enterprises because….because I…um….

After that, I fell apart. I only got this job because the other two candidates got stuck in awful lunchtime traffic downtown and missed their interviews. I can’t afford a car, or even the three dollar per hour parking meter outside the building, so I walked.

During the interview process, the entire legal department seemed so welcoming. Unfortunately, the supervising attorney I was assigned to wasn’t in any of my three interviews, so I never got the chance to meet him. If I had, I might have dropped out of the candidate pool entirely. I didn’t realize how difficult my new boss would be. Neil Hayden’s ego is bigger than the Atlantic Ocean, and he absolutely hates me. I can do no right in his eyes, and he berates me in front of my other coworkers on a regular basis. It’s embarrassing and demeaning, but I need this job.For my career and my survival.

So, I’m forced to overlook Neil Hayden’s clear distaste for me and pretend I don’t notice his extra-long pinky fingernail or the way he’s always sniffling when he comes back from the bathroom.

At fifteen dollars an hour, I’m making double what I was as a receptionist at my last job. It’s not a glamorous lifestyle by any means, but I can afford my rent and I can feed myself.

Instant noodles and tap water mostly, but it could be worse.

I can also earn unlimited overtime, which is why I work so late most nights. It’s not like I have anything better to do. I like to have fresh flowers in my kitchen, to bring life to my dull, gray, 300-square-foot studio apartment. It’s got a single window, a shitty water heater, and the bathroom is so small that I can barely squeeze in, but it’s home.

Most of my excess income, I spend on baby’s breath, ice cream and Twizzlers. It makes the long hours bearable.