Page 34 of Fractured

The handwriting was unfamiliar, and it didn’t take three guesses to know who had left it. Especially since I hadn’t contacted Autumn back with an answer. I hadn’t seen a point in it, since Drake was contacting me regardless. Although running into him at the cemetery hardly counted as him contacting me. That was just a bit of bad luck on my part.

Picking it up, I took it inside with me, setting it down on the kitchen table. I poured a glass of water, but my gaze kept straying to the envelope. There was no reason to read it. I didn’t want to speak to him. He and all the memories that came with him were bad for my psyche.

Then there was my curiosity. My hysterical running should be a big clue to him that I wasn’t going to give in to his demands. So why would he be so persistent?

“Shit,” I muttered as I plopped down and turned the letter over several times in my hands. It was a regular plain white envelope, only slightly wrinkled. A little dirt was on the bottom, as if the wind had been strong while this letter waited for me to come home.

Then I did it. Because no matter how much I tried to stick to my routines and control my life, sometimes I made decisions I knew were going to come back and bite me in the ass.

The paper inside was regular notebook paper, nothing special. And it was only one page, folded neatly over on itself.

It crinkled as I opened the page. The first thing I noticed was the neat, block letter writing. It was masculine and practical, definitely a man’s writing.

‘Drake’ was scrawled across the bottom, the only word in cursive.

Then, finally, I started to read the letter.

Lilith,

I hope this letter finds you well. I realize from the two encounters we’ve had, that maybe I’m not the highest person on your list of people to talk to. Believe me, I understand that, because you’re not on the top of my list either.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve thought about what you said. How I should forget it ever happened. How I should essentially just move on. I wish to fucking hell I could.

But I can’t.

Because I wish I’d been there. I wish I had come home for a visit on that fucking evil day so I could have stopped Eli from ever knocking on your insane mother’s door.

You know as well as I do that I can’t do that. I’m stuck in this godawful present where nothing makes sense and I hate everyone. Most people would think it’s impossible, but I literally hate everyone.

My mother, for letting him out of her sight.

Your mother, for being a crazy killer with no remorse.

Myself, for not coming home more often.

You, for not being there to save him.

I’m sorry. This isn’t why I’m writing this letter to you. The truth is, I’ve read the articles, I’ve read the reports, and there’s a lot that just doesn’t make sense. Timelines, missing information, and motive…

All I’m asking, to finally get some fucking peace, is to talk to me. Help me piece together what really happened to Eli.

I realize you probably don’t give one flying fuck about what’s important to me. But if there’s any decency in your heart, you’ll at least talk to me.

Drake.

I readthe letter three times over, hearing each word in his gruff, deep voice and thinking I’d find something different if I read it just one more time. The only piece of information I gleaned was that he’d written ‘talk to me’ so hard, he indented the paper. I let my fingers run over the back of the page underneath those words.

After we first met, I’d already had this unrelenting drive to find out what really happened with Eli. To know what Lauren did to him when she let him into the house. I would probably never know, and I was both relieved and nervous. I thought, anyway.

There was so much going on in my mind and my body that I didn’t really know what I was feeling. But suddenly, I found myself on Google, looking up articles about that day.

It was the most notorious crime in our town’s history, but there were still hardly any details. Either because it was so gory, they didn’t want to report it to the public, or because the town wanted to preserve what little bit of goodness it had left. I had to say, a lot of people knew who I was and who I was related to, and they conveniently ignored it.

Not that I was complaining. I ignored it too.

One article I clicked on had pictures, and as I tried to focus on the words, the sinister picture of my mother was just as eye-catching as the innocent, sweet picture of Eli. Anyone looking at this article would immediately think she was the female Charles Manson from the ratty hair, gaunt face, and crazed look in her eye. Yeah, I couldn’t look at her anymore.

Clicking out of that one, I found one with no pictures and began to read. It was mostly all generic legal stuff, nothing I hadn’t expected.

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