Page 10 of Trapper Road

He challenged me to do my own research and make up my own mind. Then he’d introduced me to the dark web: an entire sea of information unregulated and uncensored by governments or corporations. I’d heard about it before, but I’d never really understood it.

The dark web opened up a new trove of information about my father. I thought I’d known what my father had done, but it turned out I had no idea. The earlier internet articles I’d read had only scratched the surface.

It was on the dark web that I found the unredacted transcripts from my father’s trials, and copies of the original police reports complete with crime scene photographs. At first it was impossible to connect these images with the father I knew. I couldn’t comprehend how the man who did such gruesome things to those girls could also be the man who read me bedtime stories as a kid and tucked me in at night.

I became obsessed with a need to understand. That’s what led me to search Mom’s office one afternoon when she was at physical therapy with Sam and Lanny was out running. It took me a while to find where she’d hidden the files, but eventually, I discovered a USB key taped to the back of her desk drawer. On it were scans of all the letters Dad had sent her over the years — everything we’d thought she’d destroyed. Apparently, she’d hung on to copies just in case.

But his letters only left me more confused. So many of them showed the dark, violent side of Dad with in-depth descriptions of his crimes that went way beyond what I’d read in the police files. They made me nauseous. They made me hate him.

Other letters, though, were filled with memories and love and promises of a better future when we were all reunited as a family. They reminded me of all the ways my father had been a dad to me. How I’d looked up to him and felt loved and safe in his arms.

I couldn’t figure out which was real. I still can’t.

When I arrive at Kevin’s, I don’t bother knocking. His dad is on the couch, some sports highlight show blaring from the TV. He waves hello and asks if I want to join him. I politely decline.

Sometimes, when I’m at Kevin’s house, I can’t help watching his dad. He seems like a normal guy — your typical dad. Hair going a little grey, stomach gone soft several years back, laugh lines around his eyes. He likes to watch football on Sundays and tries to get Kevin to watch with him, but Kevin’s not really into sports and always rolls his eyes before begging off with some snide remark.

I wonder sometimes, if that drunk driver hadn’t crashed into our garage and my dad’s secret life hadn’t been exposed, would we have watched football together on Sunday afternoons? Would we have created our own rituals: buttered popcorn or chips and salsa, game-day t-shirts, maybe even superstitions when our favorite team was on a winning streak?

I remember nights watching movies as a family together on the couch, me curled up against my dad’s solid warmth. Sure, he could be stern at times, and he had certain expectations he expected us to meet with consequences if we didn’t. But he also cared about us.

He made family dinners a priority and rarely missed an event at school.

My father loved me.

My father was a monster.

It doesn’t feel like both of those things can be true at the same time. But I also can’t figure out which is the lie.

By the time I reach Kevin’s room, I already have the brown envelope out and am ripping it open. The minute he sees what I’m holding he pauses his video game and spins in his gaming chair to face me.

I settle in his desk chair and read the letter out loud.

Dear Gina,

Do you remember those nights after Brady was born when he would cry and cry and nothing would settle him except walking in circles around the house? You probably don’t. You were so overwhelmed then, always so exhausted and spending what little energy you had on Lily, leaving me to deal with newborn Brady.

I didn’t mind. If anything, I cherished that time with him. It only cemented our bond. We spent hours together walking laps. Through the kitchen, around the table, back into the living room, around the chair, to the kitchen again. I talked to Brady, then. I made him promises. One of those promises was that I would always take care of him. I would raise him to be a real man, someone to be admired and respected.

I swore to him that I would never abandon him. And I haven’t. You’re the one keeping us from each other.

I know you’re poisoning them against me, Gina. I can only imagine the lies you tell them about me. What kind of a mother does that to her child? To her son? What kind of a mother makes her children believe their father doesn’t care about them? How can you be so cruel?

It was never supposed to be this way. You were never supposed to raise my kids on your own. I was always supposed to be there. I’m their father. It’s my job to shape them — to make Brady into the man he’s supposed to become.

You’re too soft, Gina. You’ll make our kids soft too. I shudder to think what will happen to Brady under your care. Is he already weak like you? Is he already pathetic? Does he let you control him? Does he blindly obey you? Do you even allow him to be his own man?

Who will teach him to be a real man, Gina? Who will teach him to take what he’s owed? When I come for you Gina, I want you to understand why: you deserve to be punished for what you’re doing to my boy. For keeping him from me and making him believe the worst of me. When he is mine again, I’ll raise him to be the man I know he can become.

That boy is worth everything to me. He is my legacy. I won’t let you take that from me. I will fight for Brady with everything I have left.

I’m coming for you, Gina. And I’m coming for my son too.

Once I’m finished, I keep my eyes on Dad’s signature, trying to force the burning in my throat to go away. The last thing I want to do is cry in front of Kevin.

It’s not the first time Dad’s accused Mom of turning us against him, but it’s still hard to read those words without tiny seeds of doubt starting to sprout in my thoughts.

Because it’s true, isn’t it? Mom has always maintained the worst about Dad. Of course, she has good reason to — it’s not like I’m blind and ignorant to the horrible things he did. But that’s not all he is. That’s what Mom and Lanny refuse to see.

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