Authors: K. Ryan
"Oooo," he purrs and bites down on his bottom lip to hide a little of that cheshire grin. "Sassy. I like it. This is good, you know. I feel like you got your balls back."
"Did I ever really have them to begin with?" I lift an eyebrow at him.
Bennett taps his chin and his eyes lift to the ceiling in thought. "Sure you did, but this take-no-prisoners, gotta-find-answers version of you is new. And I love it. But, to be fair, when I said you needed to take risks and have an adventure, I didn't exactly have
this
," he gestures around the room, "in mind."
"Yeah, well," I shrug and shift my attention back to the matter at hand. "Beggars can't be choosers, Benn."
Bennett's right, of course. This is pretty freaking dangerous in a lot of ways. As soon as I brought him up to speed and he actually
listened
, unlike he-who-shall-not-be-named, he had no qualms about getting his hands dirty right along with me. I think he just didn't anticipate how far I'm willing to go to find what I'm looking for.
I've always known my dad locked his office. Even when I was a kid and blissfully unaware that I'd never get what I wanted from him, I'd knock naively on the door and turn the knob, hoping he'd let me in for once. It never happened. But now, I see this situation in an emotionless, but necessary lens: nobody locks a door if they nothing to hide behind it.
It's a little unsettling that it was this easy to get inside his office—a guy like my dad probably should have all the latest security technology available to man, starting with some kind of fingerprint ID on the door. But he doesn't. That says as much about my dad as anything else I know about him.
He's old-fashioned, sure, but arrogant as hell. Who would be stupid enough to break into the mayor's home office, let alone snoop around in there? In his mind, all his needs is his status, his power, his intimidation, and a locked door to hide his dirty secrets.
As I survey the space, it's pretty much exactly what I would've expected. Immaculate. Dark, polished furniture. Not a paper out of place. Two French doors serve as the only real windows in the room, which lead out to an elegant little terrace where my dad goes out to 'think' sometimes. I only know this because cigar smoke used to waft through my bedroom window in the summer—it's one of the only peaceful memories I have of my childhood that revolves around him.
His desk sits in the back of the room against a blood red wall. A looming bookcase frames it with the obligatory pictures of my dad and my step-mom at their wedding and my sister in various stages of cuteness. When my eyes skim across a picture of me, my dad, my step-mom, and my sister at my high school graduation...let's just say if I'd been sitting, I would've fallen out of my chair.
Even behind locked doors, keeping up appearances is still the key.
But as I venture further into the unknown, another framed photo catches my eye. That familiar, gorgeous auburn hair, those green eyes—I'd know her anywhere, even though all my memories stem from flashes and feelings. Her beauty was like something poets and artists only dream about: ethereal, gentle, and hopelessly fragile. I can see it even now, years after she's been long gone, as I shuffle closer to get a better look.
Her hair flows in soft curls around her shoulders and there, nestled in her arms, is me. I've seen this picture before, but it doesn't matter how many times I've seen it. The image wounds just the same. On some level, I think I understand why cold indifference is all I've ever really gotten from my dad.
When he looks at me, he sees her.
He looks at me and he's reminded not only of her, but of the way she left us too.
"Hmm," Bennett clucks his tongue behind me. "He's kind of a minimalist when it comes to decorating, isn't he?"
That jerks me out of my thoughts and I mentally recite the new list I'm operating by: 1) Break into my dad's office 2) Snoop around in every nook and cranny until I find something I can use. Once I finish numbers one and two, I'll add a few more items to my list, but right now, I'm running with this idea that having no plan, or even just part of a plan, is still a plan.
I'm still not sure if I like it.
My eyes scan the length of the bookcase with my hands on my hips and it doesn't take all that long to find the jackpot: a short, digital safe resting in the little space conveniently carved out at the bottom of the massive bookcase. Perfect.
"Hey Benn," I call over my shoulder. "Google First Alert 209DF."
"On it."
All I need to know is how many stabs at this I get. The rest, I guess, is up to chance. I hate that. But, seeing as how there's nothing I can do about it, I move on to what I can control: sifting through my dad's desk. The heavy wooden drawers open easily and that's because there's nothing in them. Well, nothing I can use. Just some stray pens, a few personalized pads of paper with matching envelopes, an ancient calculator, and a few other meaningless items that I bypass to move on to the lower drawers.
The one on the left is a dead-end, but when I tug on the right drawer, my heart leaps up into my throat. Finally. I don't know if I'll have any luck this time, but it's stupid
not
to try...right? My hand hovers in front of the tiny keyhole, bobby pin at the ready, and it trembles under the weight of all this. There's something in this drawer, something that will point me in the right direction. I can just feel it.
My head jerks up at the sound of Bennett's soft voice.
"
If you like to do the things you know that we shouldn't do,"
he sings, swiveling his shoulders to the beat in his head as he taps away at his phone. "
Baby, I'm perfect....baby, I'm perfect for you."
"Benn!" I whisper harshly. "Are you finding that info on the safe or are you signing up for Boy Bands Anonymous?"
The side of his mouth curls up in a snarl. "I'm sorry, but this song fit our situation here
perfect
, don't you think?"
My eyes lift up to the ceiling and I shake my head. "Oh my God. Somebody save me from this madness."
"You're just jealous that Harry would probably like me better than you," he perches a hand on his hip just for good measure as he stares me down.
My eyebrows fly into my forehead. "I wish I could play that back for you, so you can hear how absolutely insane you sounded. I'm serious, Benn. You need help."
"Don't we all, Clamato. Don't we all." He nods to the desk. "Don't you have your own therapy-worthy sleuthing to get back to?"
I shoot him one last exasperated scowl and then get back to just that. With my trusty looped bobby pin in hand, I get to work, cranking and pleading with this locked drawer to just freaking open already, and after enough twisting and turning, the lock clicks.
My trembling hands pull the drawer open—this is it. Whatever
it
is, it's something I need. It's momentous—this feeling that maybe I'm actually on the right track and I don't even know what's inside the drawer yet.
Finally, I let myself look. And I frown at what I find.
All that's inside the drawer is a stack of postcards tied together with a rubber band.
"That's it?" I mutter under my breath.
Talk about anti-climatic.
"What is it?" Bennett's quiet voice calls out as he pads over to me.
I just lift a shoulder and hold up the stack of postcards. "I'm not sure."
But I didn't come here to leave a single stone unturned, so I unband the stack of cards and flip through them. Different images of Boston, both historical and current, cover the front and honestly, the only thing that's strange about them is that my dad would even have something like this in the first place.
And it's that thought that has the alarm bells going off.
Because when I flip a card over, it takes me a few moments just to make sense of what I'm seeing. There's no return address, but it was originally sent to somebody named James Lindsay at a PO box here in Boston. The actual content of the message itself is odd, too:
PR6037T617D7
241
Aibrean 8
I blink. Then I blink again. And again. What the...this just doesn't make any sense. My fingers flip through the rest of the cards and it's more of the same, just different details. There's nothing else on them but these cryptic messages. And who the hell is James Lindsay?
"Whatcha got there?" Benn pops up behind my shoulder and I practically leap across the desk. "Geez. What's wrong with you?"
My hand flies across my chest to a lame attempt at calming my racing heart and I thrust the stack of postcards at him. His dark eyes scan the first one before his eyebrows dip into a deep frown.
"James Lindsay? As in Father Lindsay?"
"You know him?"
Bennett shrugs, but there's an uneasy expression lining his face. "Sure. Everybody does. He's the parish priest at St. Anthony's."
I don't need him to clarify where that parish is located. Bennett spent the first ten years of his life in Southie before his dad died and his mom moved them to live with his grandma, coincidentally just a few blocks away from me. The fact that Bennett knows him doesn't surprise me. It's the fact that my
dad
knows him, or at least, has his mail, that's making my head spin its tires.
"My dad would never go to a parish in Southie," I think out loud, my eyes fixated on the postcards in Bennett's hands.
He never really goes to mass, period. The only times he forces himself—and sometimes the rest of us—to go is when he has an upcoming event, whether it's a vote, an election, or an appearance, so he can look like the God-fearing family man he most definitely isn't. And if he
does
go to mass, he goes to the same parish in the North End he's gone to his whole life.
"Hmmm," Bennett hums and blows out a deep sigh. "I have no idea what any of this means. I think it might be Irish, but I'm not sure."
He points to the word,
aibrean,
and shrugs. As far as I'm concerned we can figure this out later. What we need right now is documentation.
"Alright," I wave a hand at the postcards and toss Bennett my phone. "Just take pictures of everything, okay? Both sides—we don't know what any of it means, so we can't leave any of it out."
He mock-salutes me and begins the process of readying the cards on top of the desk.
"Did you figure out how many tries I get?"
"What?" Bennett's eyes lift up from his work at the desk. "Oh right. Yeah, I found the owner's manual—you get three tries before it locks you out for fifteen minutes."
Judging by the amount of time we've already wasted in here bickering and gawking over some postcards, our time is probably almost up, at least for now. My step-mom could show up from her lunch at any moment now and if that happens, plan A is to wait it out and hope she leaves. Plan B is to jump off the terrace or hide in the closet. I think I know which one Bennett would prefer.
"Okay," I rub my hands together and eye up the safe against the wall. "I'm gonna figure you out."
I crouch down until I'm eye-level with the keypad and now a new list is forming: What Combination Would My Dad Use? Important dates are easy to remember, but something the average person wouldn't necessarily know about him without some serious digging. If I were him, knowing how cavalier he is with just about everything in his life from his politics right down to his wardrobe, my gut is telling me to pick some dates.
So where to start? That's easy.
I punch in my sister's birthdate and turn the handle. Nothing. Okay, that one was
too
easy and now I only get two more stabs at this. My eyes drift up to the bookcase and land right on my mom's picture again. She's been gone for so long...and that might be enough time to fall off someone's radar. He never talks about her in public and her memory is all but washed away from his house and his life, save for this one framed picture in his office that no one would ever see anyway.
So if that's the angle, I have to figure out the next step. Her birthday, maybe? No, that didn't work out so well for me before and I don't want to waste the little opportunity I have left. I go with the less obvious choice and punch in their wedding date.
Still. Nothing.
My mind sifts through everything I can think of—what else could it be? What other date would he pick? Or maybe it's not a specific date at all. Maybe it's just a random bunch of numbers and if that's the case, I'm more likely to meet Kanye West at anger management treatment than figure out this code.
But my eyes find that picture of my mom one last time and I figure it's a long shot, but it's still a shot.
I start to punch in another date, 03-19-19...but I don't get a chance to finish punching in the year because the sound of footsteps echo down the hallway. My body freezes in panic, mid-crouch and my eyes frantically find Bennett, who's gone still as a statue at the base of the desk with my phone in his hands.
Faint, familiar murmuring vibrates through the walls and that just sends me even deeper into panic mode.
"Oh God!" Bennett whispers. "It's the step-beast!"
"Is the door shut?"
Bennett whips around to face me with stunned, wide dark eyes then he peels around the desk, arms outstretched and reaching for the door until he gently pushes it so it closes with a soft click. That's when the footsteps and the murmuring cease.