Page 35 of Vermilion Desire

Throwing on my clothes, I ignore the stickiness between my legs as I wiggle on a pair of sweatpants. It’s not mine from the wide waistline as I tie the strings, but the sweater is mine since it’s redder than the flag of Japan.

Mr. Wolf wouldn’t be caught dead in red. That color is too bright, and it makes him more of a target than he already is with his detective career.

He takes my hand, pulling me off the bed, and our feet barely have our shoes on before we’re making our way to the car.

The sky is darkening, signaling the end of the day. I didn’t realize that our scandalous activities have taken that much time.

“Seatbelt,” Mr. Wolf reminds kindly as he notices me spacing out.

I do as he says, and we’re speeding off the street after he had taken out a removable siren to stick it on top of his car.

This whole experience is a bit weird; Uncle Cal did that twice when I was in the car with him, and I never thought I would be in the car with criminals being taken to the police station when both times were supposed to be simple trips to the research facility.

“Who was that on the phone?” I ask, filling in the silence of the car as the day becomes darker.

The Berkshire mansion is out of the city, and it’s going to take some time to get there, but it’s rare for me to see Mr. Wolf going anywhere without contacting Uncle Cal. They’re partners, and they are each other’s backup.

“Berkshire’s lawyer. And I called Cal for backup. He’s coming with us. I don’t trust that family.”

I see. I shouldn’t ever doubt him. He would never be like those characters in crime shows who do things by themselves despite having good reinforcement just one phone call away.

Whether it’s luck or not, our trip didn’t have one red light. A yellow warning here and there, but we never experienced a red one, so my suspicion rises. Would this be a scenario where someone had hacked the traffic control?

Audacious and very questionable.

I don’t know how Uncle Cal had got there first, but his car meets ours when we entered the gate of the massive mansion. He’s standing outside waiting for us, and the cold air brushes my neck, and I shudder at the coldness.

“Took you guys long enough,” he grunts.

I memorize the whole trip from our car to the inner structure of the mansion. The style is old, a hint of Victorian-era mixing in a flare for dramatic effects. At first glance, it’s an old castle, but I feel as if Dracula resides in this place rather than a generational home for the Berkshire family.

The butler guides us to the bedroom of Berkshire Senior, who is bedridden with his lawyers at his side, but there is no sign of the younger Berkshire. A nurse and a doctor are checking his vitals on the machine while he has a tube for breathing in his nose.

“Mr. Berkshire, they are here.” One of the lawyers bends down, and the man’s eyes peel open.

“I-I don’t have time anymore,” he begins, getting straight to the point with no pleasantry. That’s exactly what I want; this place gives me the creeps, and I can’t shake the feeling that someone is crawling in the walls.

Watching too many movies will do that to someone.

The doctor passes me a list of symptoms and the name of the illness that they had concluded. The name is familiar, and I remember I had done research on that when I was given a project to prove myself during the time at the program for gifted children.

“You…” I murmur with curious eyes when I scan the list of symptoms that are consistent with what I have been seeing on the young Berkshire.

I look up, seeing him trying to move his left eye because it’s dropping too low to have any vision in it. “You can’t see through your left eye.”

It’s a bold guess, but he only smiles. “Yes. I can’t; it has been years too.”

“My son is not a bad child,” he says with a sigh, eyes casting up to the ceiling. “He cannot control himself. It’s the disease’s fault; it made him unable to control his anger.”

His lawyer’s voice sharply cuts in. “For the record, my client is not admitting his son’s wrongdoing, nor will any of this be applicable in court. He will not be held responsible for anything.”

I ignore the man in the suit and scan the man’s prone state. “You speak from experience.”

“Yes,” he admits coolly. “Braxton is a mirror reflection of my younger self, and I wish to change that.”

His eyes drift to the two men behind me. “I understand if you do not wish to help my son and I support the justice system, for it will punish those who are guilty, but I am asking you to save my son’s life.”

Uncle Cal and Mr. Wolf are sympathetic people, but I’m not going to wager on how far their kindness goes when it comes to someone like Braxton Berkshire.

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