Page 142 of Finding Our Reality

“That garage kid? The one who’s a cop now?” Shaking his head, he picks up his drink and downs it. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. I wasn’t invited to a wedding. I assume it was an intimate event?”

I ignore his comment. “You said you had something to give me?”

He snaps his fingers like he just remembered. “Yes. I went to a medical conference back in May. They presented me with a posthumous award on your father’s behalf. I wanted to give it you. It’s just in the office.” He extends an arm down the hallway. “Shall we?”

“I’ll just wait here.”

Furrowing his brow, he shrugs again. “Suit yourself,” he says, as he wanders off down the darkened hall.

I glance around the living room, which doesn’t look lived in at all. No throw pillows tossed on the couch. No blankets draped over the chair. No dog-eared book sitting on the coffee table. Even the framed pictures on the fireplace mantel look fake. My eyes immediately dart to the picture of me, Carrie, and Kristie from a garden party.

I always hated that picture.

I was so mad at Carrie that day. I was in middle school and she was in high school. She was supposed to take me to the movies that night, but she met a boy at the party and decided to go on a date with him instead. I hated that picture because everytime I saw it, it made me think about how angry I was at my sister that day. Carrie and I always got along so well that being mad at her felt wrong.

And it feels wrong now.

Growling, I turn the offensive picture around. I look at the other pictures. There’s one of Phillip and Kristie’s mom on their wedding day. One of Kristie at kindergarten graduation. One of my parents and Phillip at a black-tie charity event. And one of Phillip, my dad, and Carrie at a bicycle race. They’re dressed in their matching jerseys and tight shorts, posing next to their bikes, holding their medals high in the air.

It must have been one hell of a race. My father looks like he’s about to pass out. My sister has a scrape on her elbow. A small trickle of blood is running in a line, like red rainwater, down her arm. And Phillip’s bloodied shorts are torn, showcasing the majority of his left leg, like he’s some kind of deranged pantyhose model.

My hand drifts to the back of my neck and I rub my scar, thinking about my sister. She’s so beautiful. She really could’ve been a model. Strands of her blonde hair blow in the breeze. Her skin glistens with sweat from the race. Her brilliant smile makes my soul feel light and airy. I’m about to step away from the vivid memory when my eyes lock on something unexpected in the photograph.

Phillip.

More importantly, Phillip’s leg.

There, on his upper left thigh, is a cut. A bloody, yet unmistakable cut. A cut shaped like the letterJ. A cut like that leaves a scar. A scar just like the one I’ve spent the past eight-and-a-half months staring at on a daily basis.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t think my heart is beating.

I think I’m dying.

Immediately, my palm flies to my chest. Rubbing my breastbone, I try to pump life back into my lifeless body.

All this time. It’s been right under my nose all this time. And I refused to see it.

My throat constricts. I try to gulp air into my lungs, but all I can manage are short, painful gasps. My vision blurs, forming a black tunnel. My ears start ringing, driving my swirling brain to the brink of psychosis.

Phillip’s voice cuts through the room. “Here you go. Something to add to the collection of your father’s lasting notoriety.”

Bastard. Fucking bastard. “It was you,” I whisper in disbelief.

“What?”

“It was you.”

“What was me?”

I spin around to face him, the devil incarnate. “It was you. You raped my sister.”

A flash of recognition burns across his face, but he quickly replaces it with shock and abhorrence. Placing my dead father’s acrylic plaque on the table, he folds his arms across his chest. “What are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?”

“You raped Carrie.”

“How can you say such a thing? Carrie was like a daughter to me. Just like you.”

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