Broken Silence

around to find her, she’s looking at me with an unreadable expression, but doesn’t seem upset by our kiss.

“Don’t worry, we talked. I just want you to know before I say this, that I don’t expect you to feel the same way. But, Charlie… I really like you. As more than friends,” she says quietly, staring down at her feet. The butterflies return, and I know without a doubt, I want her too. For a moment I question why I’m so weird and attracted to so many, but I honestly wouldn’t change it. I hardly care what anyone thinks about me.

Feeling bold, I step forward and lift her chin. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears as she looks at me, worry lining them. I want nothing more than to wipe the insecurities away. It's easy to see how hard those words were to speak… how vulnerable she is right now. I give her a soft smile, before brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. I can’t speak to tell her the words… to explain how I feel, so I use actions instead. I lean forward, my lips so close, yet not touching as I stare into her eyes. I give her that moment to pull away, but she doesn’t. My heart pounds in my chest, but I close the distance and press my lips to hers.

It’s my first kiss to another woman. It feels so different but so fucking good. Abby’s lips are fuller than the guys and taste sweet. Her kiss is insistent as she puts a hand on my hip and grips it gently, my body flooding with heat as she takes charge.

Everything in me cries out for more but I don’t want to rush this, I want to savor it. Abby deserves someone who can cherish and worship her, and fuck do I want to be that person.

She must sense me pulling away because her kiss turns gentle and slow before she finally pulls away.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” she whispers, giving me a shy smile before walking outside and closing the door.

In that moment, I realize I’m no longer numb, and I don’t want to be.

Sunday

Morning

Charlie

The next day Sophia wakes me up early so we can drive down to Starbrooke. Knowing I’ll just be getting dirty, I put on some of my older clothes, which honestly seems so weird. The girl who wore these feels like a whole different person. Though I can’t resist my fingerless gloves that match my leather jacket, it’s too cold and that stuff will be too dusty not to wear something on my hands.

As soon as we climb in the car, I pull out my phone and send a good morning text to the group before explaining I’m out with Sophia today. Nobody responds since all of them are probably still passed out. I was going to wait before texting them, but I don’t know how I’ll be feeling later, mentally.

The drive is two hours long, and it gives me way too many opportunities to send my anxiety into dangerous levels. The memories keep flashing back throughout the drive, but the worst is the Starbrooke sign. As soon as I see it, my heart starts racing, my hands shake, and my vision tunnels. The only thing keeping me from slipping completely under is Sophia's warm hand that wraps around mine.

“You can do this, Charlie. You won’t be staying here, and it’s just stuff. Their belongings are not them,” she reassures me in a firm voice, the emotion behind it strong enough to ground me. The words help bring my anxiety down by a small amount, at least enough so I can take in a normal breath. That is, until we pull up outside of the storage unit.

Trying to keep my emotions in check, I tug the key out of my pocket and slip out of the car. Maybe if I move fast enough, I’ll outrun my panic.

My pulse picks up again as I unlock the double wide unit and raise the large door. The smell hits me almost immediately. It’s under a layer of stale air, but the familiar smell of lavender and vanilla that my mom somehow infused into our entire lives hit me like a moving truck.

Fuck, I can’t do this.

“We’ve got this, honey,” Sophia whispers, putting her hand on my shoulder and giving me a gentle squeeze. I nod and take a deep breath before walking farther in. The unit is illuminated by two single bulbs, hanging low and looking more like a fire hazard than anything, but they give off enough light that I can just make out the remnants of my former life.

A tear makes its way down my cheek as I take in the familiar furniture and pictures. I refused to go through them at the time, so everything that wasn’t covered in blood got moved in here. I plan on fully going through it all once I move out on my own, and my trust has enough to cover the expense until then.

I wade through the stacks of boxes and odds and ends. Instead of searching through it all, I decide to pull out anything that says 'office' on it. I bring them to the front of the unit to look at the contents in better lighting once I’m done.

After we pull out at least six boxes of papers and books, we reach the end of the office boxes. Deciding that's a good start, I close my eyes and let a wave of grief roll over me, nearly making me breathless. But that’s all I allow myself before I go out to inspect what we found.

Removing the first lid, I start sorting through them one by one. It's tedious work, but I'm determined to find anything that will point to the reason behind this. Because I know damn well it wasn’t a random act, it was purposeful and premeditated, despite what the police would believe.

Why believe your only witness when you can write her off as the broken fifteen-year-old who won’t speak anymore.

After an hour of shuffling through the boxes, I finally find something, which makes all the lingering pain worthwhile.

Excited, I hurry over to Sophia who is elbow deep in another box, tapping her shoulder to get her attention. Her eyes go wide as she scans over the document I point out. It's a printout of an email that was tucked into one of Dad’s old planners. It's from him to another coworker, stating the founder of his research company was channeling funds from their donations into another account. He didn’t think it was innocent and it's definitely something that could have gotten Dad into trouble if they found out. He must have printed it so they had evidence, just in case.

There has to be more, though. There's no way they would kill my family over transfers. Right?

“Oh my,” she whispers as she reads over it again. She pulls out her cell phone and makes a call. “I need to speak to Detective Flynn, please.” She pauses, waiting. “Hi, this is Sophia. Charlotte found some information that we think may be important to the case. Can you send someone over to the storage units to pick it up?” Listing off the address, she ends the call, her face twisted in what is supposed to be a reassuring smile but looks more like a worried grimace.

Not wanting to simply sit and think, I figure I may as well keep looking until they arrive. In the next box, I find one of his favorite old books. The pages are worn and the cover is frayed at the edges, but we’d read it so many times together. Smiling through my tear-filled eyes, I pick it up and crack it open. The tears stop as another paper flutters out.

This one isn’t an email, but an account print off of the transfers he talked about. It mentions the transfer being linked to something called SHRP. I don’t remember Dad ever mentioning anything like that when he talked about his work, but then again this could have been what him and Mom were arguing about a few days before their murder. It was a memory I’d forgotten, but I heard them arguing as I tried to fall asleep, and it was such an odd thing that it stuck out. The next day they acted like everything was fine, but we could feel the tension.