Brothersong (Green Creek 4)

I stopped the recording.

I thought about deleting it.

Just… deleting it and forgetting about all of this.

It would be so easy.

I’d delete it, and then I’d stand up. I’d leave the office. I’d sit on the steps on the porch until someone came home, and I’d tell them what I’d done and what I was about to do. Maybe it’d be Mom. She’d be smiling at the sight of me, but that smile would fade when she saw the look on my face. She’d rush forward, and I would tell her everything. That I thought I was losing my mind, that I didn’t know what Gavin was, not until it was too late. That I should have fought harder for him, that I should have told him that he couldn’t leave with Robert Livingstone, he couldn’t leave with his father, he couldn’t leave me. Not when I understood. Not when I knew now what I should have known a long time ago.

Or maybe it’d be Kelly. Maybe he’d know something was wrong.

Dust would be kicking up from the tires of his cruiser, the light bar across the top flashing, the siren wailing. He’d throw open the door, the look on his face a mixture of worry and anger.

“What are you doing?” he’d demand.

“I don’t know,” I’d reply. “I’m lost, Kelly. I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know what’s going on, please, please, please save me. Please tie me down so I can never leave you. Please don’t let me do this. Please don’t let me leave. Scream at me. Hit me. Destroy me. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

I saved the video instead.

I stood up.

It was now or never.

Before I left the office, I looked back once.

For a moment I thought I saw my father standing behind his desk, hand stretched toward me.

I blinked.

There was nothing there.

A trick of the light.

I closed the door for the last time.

AND YET….

I hesitated on the porch, duffel bag at my feet.

I told myself it was because I was taking it in. This place. Our territory. A last few breaths of home for whatever lay ahead.

But I was a liar.

I looked down the dirt road, snow falling in flurries and clinging to the trees. No one came.

And still I waited.

One minute turned into two, turned into three, into seven.

When ten minutes had passed, I knew it was now or never. I had stalled long enough.

I picked up my bag.

Stepped off the porch.

And went to my truck.

I climbed inside and closed the door behind me.