Page 4 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats (Till Death Do Us Part #1)

Chapter Three

Atticus

Present day…

It’s been two long years, and I finally have the answers right in front of my face. One single folder stuffed full of the legalities of my life. Adoption papers, birth certificate, medical records, and—the most important of all, family history.

It was never a secret that I was given up for adoption the moment I was expelled from my mother’s womb.

I can’t remember a time when I was wanted by someone.

It’s been ingrained into my head that I’m just here, existing for a reason I can’t figure out.

No matter where I go, I’m not needed and certainly not wanted.

Everyone I’ve encountered in my twenty-seven years of life has given me up.

Even my adoptive parents, who, once upon a time, I thought wanted me.

But after spending too much time replaying my life with them, I realize it wasn’t me they wanted.

It was someone to fill in the empty space in their pathetic life.

But then there’s Gavin O’Leary. That guy’s been with me for two years. Difference is, he has to be here. I pay him. So he doesn’t really count.

“This is all of it?” I ask, glancing up at the ginger who promised he could get me everything I wanted—and delivered.

There were many before him, none of which could get me what I wanted. But Gavin… Gavin is good.

“Yep. You said you wanted it all at once, so I got it all together for you.”

“And you’re sure nothing is missing?”

He gives me that look that tells me I annoyed him, so I’m already prepared for his next words to have a heavy Boston accent. It happens when he’s mad.

“If somethin’ ain’t there, it’s gone forevah. No way I overlooked anythin’, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“I sure hope not for the price you charge.”

Gavin rolls his eyes and holds his hand out, palm up.

I pull the wad of cash from my pocket and count it once more before handing it over. Ten grand in cash—the last of what I owe him.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya.” He shakes the bills at me. “I can see myself out, thanks.”

I stare at his retreating body and listen for the front door to open and close. I’m not worried about him not leaving, I just want to be alone as I go through this for the first time. Who knows what’s going to happen when I’m done?

I’ve wondered about this information since I had conscious thoughts. And though there were plenty of years I could have requested it, I kept putting it off. Until finally, I didn’t.

It’s sad how my entire existence fits into one ugly yellow folder. Couldn’t he have chosen a better color? Red, maybe. That’s more suitable to my personality. Not some sunshine fucking canary yellow.

I press my hands flat to the dining table and stare down at the folder. What am I going to find here?

Something that is going to keep me wondering about my life?

Fix my problems?

Send me into a rage?

It’s been a while since that happened, but it doesn’t mean it won’t.

That part of me is still there, lying dormant somewhere deep down.

He comes out when he wants. Needs attention now and then.

I feed him when I can, but it’s not so easy these days with cameras on every street and every front door.

Technology is too accessible. Makes my needs difficult to meet.

Problem is, if I don’t keep him fed, he takes over and does what he wants.

Things get messy then. It’s dangerous. Risky.

I flip open the cover and the top page is my birth certificate. I skim over the information that I already know.

Atticus Brown. November 1. 12:03 AM. Des Moines, Iowa. 5 lbs, 2 oz.

I’ve seen this information before, but never on this specific birth certificate.

I don’t know how she did it, but my bitch of a bio mom made sure her name was erased from paperwork so I would never know who she is.

Likely so I would never go looking for her.

As if I’d want to do that. I mean, I do want to know who she is, but I don’t want to meet her.

Theory is she cheated on her husband and got pregnant.

The guilt of it made her give me up. Not sure how she convinced him of that or why she didn’t just abort me.

That’s a question I’ll never have answered, but at this point, I don’t fucking care.

Too many nights I lay in the dark, wondering why I was given up.

There are hundreds of scenarios I’ve come up with, and none of which matter any more.

I focus on the small portion of the paper that lists the parent information. The father’s information is blank. The mother’s? Trudy Erickson.

Atticus Erickson? Doesn’t sound right. The generic name Brown sounds better, but Atticus St. Claire sounds the best. Though my name never would have been Atticus Erickson, considering my mother wasn’t kind enough to give me a name at all.

My name came from the orphanage, from a young new staff who convinced the older nurse to name me Atticus because she’d just been to Athens and said it was the most beautiful place she’d ever been to. I was already a week old at that point.

For someone who doesn’t know shit about where I come from, I do know a lot about my life.

I absorb information like a sponge. I hear something and I can never unhear it.

The storage in my brain works immaculately.

Violet once said I had an eidetic memory, but I think she was just trying to make me feel special.

She’s smart with stuff like that. Knows all sorts of things I don’t.

She catches on quickly. Blends in too. We’re a dangerous mix, smart in different ways. Together, we’re a toxic mixture.

With nothing else of importance on the birth certificate, I flip it onto the empty side of the folder and look over the next paper—page one of my adoption.

This is all information I know, but still, I skim over it just to be sure nothing is different.

Bridget and Baxter St. Claire.

Adoption finalized on December 24th. A lovely Christmas present to Bridget because Baxter couldn’t get his dick up enough to impregnate her.

I’d just turned five and my hope for finding a family was going down faster than the Titanic.

Then they came and swept me away to Boston.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Remember the happiness in their eyes, the excitement of taking me on a plane with them, of touching down in Boston, of showing me buildings bigger than I thought was possible.

I also remember the disappointment in their eyes when I didn’t respond and react the way they hoped. I didn’t get excited, I didn’t smile, I didn’t want more .

Soon enough, I learned how to handle that though.

I watched and listened—especially listened.

And it didn’t take long for me to put on a happy face because that’s what I was supposed to do.

It never felt right, but seeing my mother smile was kind of nice.

At least she wanted me in some way. I still believe that, just a little.

There were other children at the orphanage, and she picked me.

I shouldn’t hold onto little things like that, but what else do I have?

Adapting on the outside turned out easier than I thought it would be. I’m like a chameleon, turning into whatever is needed at that time. It’s entertaining most days, but other days it’s downright exhausting. What I would give to go back to that last night with Violet… now that was living.

Fire. Sex. Murder. Perfection.

Life with the St. Claires was good. They fought, but they had a shit ton of money so I got the best video games, a giant bed, comfortable clothes, and all the food I could ever want to eat.

They kept me happy with their money, and I was fine to take it because I’d gone so long with having nothing.

Even now, in the afterlife, they still take care of me with their money.

They left me everything. I didn’t get access to it until I turned twenty-one, which made the years of eighteen through twenty-one really fucking difficult.

Living on the streets, squatting in abandoned buildings when it got too cold, working under the table at bullshit restaurants.

It wasn’t awful for the short time Violet and I were together, right after I left the home. But that didn’t last long, either.

Now that I’m in my dead parents’ house, the one I grew up in, with their millions, life is good again. Good in the sense that it isn’t stressful. At least in most aspects.

Both St. Claires came from money. Baxter was some big shot lawyer, raking in a ton of money from handling some of Boston’s worst cases.

It’s why they moved here at all. His parents' money made him rich in Iowa, dealing with corn, but what made his name big was coming to the city. I don’t hate it here, and it’s why I stayed instead of selling everything and taking off to Russia—which still sounds good some days.

I flip through all the adoption pages, not seeing anything new.

Not a single thing about my father, so that’ll remain a mystery, it seems. Next is all my medical stuff.

Doctor’s appointments, dentist appointments, that time I had to get my appendix removed.

School transcripts, job history, license, vehicle information… a bunch of nothing.

Until I reach the end and find the picture of a man who looks faintly familiar, though I’m not sure why.

Pretty sure I’ve never seen him before in my life, yet there is something about him that draws me in.

Lifting the photo that’s paper-clipped to the top corner, my vision goes funny after I read his name.

James Erickson.