Page 42 of Lotus

My feet hit the pavement in opposite time, sweat trickling down from my hairline. I’m running because I can. I’m running because I was unable to run for twenty-two years. Instead, I exercised in my cell, focusing on push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, and an assortment of strengthening routines I’d read about in books. I enjoyed working-out because it felt good, and because my body was one of the very few things I had control over.

So, I’m running because it’s enjoyable and freeing, and perhaps, in some way, it feels like I’m running from all the things I cannot run from.

The detectives told me Bradford died from head trauma, and he was likely dead within moments of the injury. Part of me knew he was deceased when I left him there. His limbs were still, his pulse nonexistent. Maybe it was curiosity, the prospect of freedom, that guided me up those rickety steps and into a world I thought was lost.

The truth is, he fell—I didn’t hurt him. I could never purposely cause harm to the one and only person I knew and trusted. Bradford tripped on the very first step of the metal rungs, landing headfirst onto the cement flooring, his skull cracking, blood misting me as I watched in silent horror. It was an accident.

It was a horrible accident.

It’s been three days since I sat on that grassy hill with Sydney, since she took my hand in hers and led me home in thick, heavy silence, while my eyes watched her features wrinkle and crease with noticeable worry. I never asked her why we left so abruptly. I never questioned the concern radiating off her in palpable waves. All I did was hold her hand the entire walk home, until we approached the flashing police lights in my driveway and I was taken to the station for interrogation.Again.

Raymond Bradley Ford was a recluse, having lived alone in his secluded farmhouse ever since the death of his wife and only son in the late nineties. A family member reported him missing back in March, but due to the hidden state of his body and disguised hatch door, the initial quick sweep of his home did not produce his whereabouts.

The detective with the mustache, the one I dislike, grilled me once more. “Why do you think he singledyouout? What made you special to him?”

They were attempting to piece together a motive, but the motive seemed clear, even to me. “Perhaps I reminded him of his deceased son.”

The detective stroked his salt-and-pepper mustache, his eyes almost accusatory as they speared me. “Let’s go over the details of the abduction again.”

An anxious sigh dispensed.

I remembered the fireworks. I recalled bits and pieces of the lengthy car ride, like the way Bradford’s hands squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned opaque. There was a song on the radio, something upbeat and old-fashioned—a striking contrast to the dismal mood.

Bradford had been muttering to himself, appearing frazzled and out of sorts.

“It’s all right, kid. It’s gonna be all right.”

His words contradicted the sweat pooled along his brow.

After that, memories are choppy. Timeline is disorganized. Befores and afters and in-betweens are blurred.

“You never once tried to escape?” Mustache Man inquired.

“I did in the beginning, but the hatch was always locked, and a young boy was no match for a man of his caliber. Then I began to trust him. I believed him when he told me that we were under attack—that the outside air was filled with poison.” I swallowed down my grief and pangs of regret. “It seems silly now, but I thought he was protecting me. He was convincing in his demeanor… and the protective gear he’d always wear…”

A slow nod. “And he never touched you inappropriately?”

I had answered this question already. The notion sickened me. “No.”

Mustache Man leaned back with crossed arms and a hum of frustration. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would Mr. Ford go to all that trouble storing a kid in his basement for over two decades, without some kind of twisted perversion involved? Sexual predators might do this. Even cult members might do this. But a lonely farmer with no priors?” He shook his head, his dark eyes squinting at me. “It doesn’t add up. Why doesn’t it add up, Oliver?”

I couldn’t hold back, and I blamed Sydney for it. “Pardon my forwardness, but I believe that’s your job to figure out, sir.”

Mustache Man did not appreciate my response.

Thankfully, I was released a few hours later, but I had one question before I stepped out of the interrogation room: “Did you locate my comics?”

Another detective stepped in, guiding me down the long hall. “We did, but they’re in evidence right now. All personal belongings will be returned once the case is closed.”

A hollowness swept through me, and it lingers still.

The case will never be closed. There will never be answers because the one person who holds them is dead.

I continue running until I become too out of breath to proceed any longer, and I partially collapse in the front entryway when I reach the house. I’m bent over, hands on my knees, chest burning and stinging. An unfamiliar voice startles me.

“Oliver?”

Pulling myself into an upright position, I glance up the staircase and into the living room. A bearded man with silver spectacles studies me over the rail, a glass of amber liquid in his right hand.

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