Page 5 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

Present day…

It’s been two long years, and I finally have the answers right in front of my face. One single folder stuffed full of the legalities of my life. Adoption papers, birth certificate, medical records, and—the most important of all, family history.

It was never a secret that I was given up for adoption the moment I was expelled from my mother’s womb. I can’t remember a time when I was wanted by someone. It’s been ingrained into my head that I’m just here, existing for a reason I can’t figure out. No matter where I go, I’m not needed and certainly not wanted. Everyone I’ve encountered in my twenty-seven years of life has given me up. Even my adoptive parents, who, once upon a time, I thought wanted me. But after spendingtoo much time replaying my life with them, I realize it wasn’t me they wanted. It was someone to fill in the empty space in their pathetic life.

But then there’s Gavin O’Leary. That guy’s been with me for two years. Difference is, he has to be here. I pay him. So he doesn’treallycount.

“This is all of it?” I ask, glancing up at the ginger who promised he could get me everything I wanted—and delivered.

There were many before him, none of which could get me what I wanted. But Gavin… Gavin is good.

“Yep. You said you wanted it all at once, so I got it all together for you.”

“And you’re sure nothing is missing?”

He gives me that look that tells me I annoyed him, so I’m already prepared for his next words to have a heavy Boston accent. It happens when he’s mad.

“If somethin’ ain’t there, it’s gone forevah. No way I overlooked anythin’, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“I sure hope not for the price you charge.”

Gavin rolls his eyes and holds his hand out, palm up.

I pull the wad of cash from my pocket and count it once more before handing it over. Ten grand in cash—the last of what I owe him.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya.” He shakes the bills at me. “I can see myself out, thanks.”

I stare at his retreating body and listen for the front door to open and close. I’m not worried about himnotleaving, I just want to be alone as I go through this for the first time. Who knows what’s going to happen when I’m done?

I’ve wondered about this information since I had conscious thoughts. And though there were plenty of years I could have requested it, I kept putting it off. Until finally, I didn’t.

It’s sad how my entire existence fits into one ugly yellow folder. Couldn’t he have chosen a better color? Red, maybe. That’s more suitable to my personality. Not some sunshine fucking canary yellow.

I press my hands flat to the dining table and stare down at the folder. What am I going to find here?

Something that is going to keep me wondering about my life?

Fix my problems?

Send me into a rage?

It’s been a while since that happened, but it doesn’t mean it won’t. That part of me is still there, lying dormant somewhere deep down. He comes out when he wants. Needs attention now and then. I feed him when I can, but it’s not so easy these days with cameras on every street and every front door. Technology is too accessible. Makes my needs difficult to meet. Problem is, if I don’t keep him fed, he takes over and does what he wants. Things get messy then. It’s dangerous. Risky.

I flip open the cover and the top page is my birth certificate. I skim over the information that I already know.

Atticus Brown. November 1. 12:03 AM. Des Moines, Iowa. 5 lbs, 2 oz.

I’ve seen this information before, but never on this specific birth certificate. I don’t know how she did it, but my bitch of a bio mom made sure her name was erased from paperwork so I would never know who she is. Likely so I would never go looking for her. As if I’d want to do that. I mean, I do want to know who she is, but I don’t want to meet her.

Theory is she cheated on her husband and got pregnant. The guilt of it made her give me up. Not sure how she convinced him of that or why she didn’t just abort me. That’s a question I’ll never have answered, but at this point, I don’t fucking care. Too many nights I lay in the dark, wondering why I was given up.There are hundreds of scenarios I’ve come up with, and none of which matter any more.

I focus on the small portion of the paper that lists the parent information. The father’s information is blank. The mother’s? Trudy Erickson.

Atticus Erickson? Doesn’t sound right. The generic nameBrownsounds better, but Atticus St. Claire sounds the best. Though my name never would have been Atticus Erickson, considering my mother wasn’t kind enough to give me a name at all. My name came from the orphanage, from a young new staff who convinced the older nurse to name me Atticus because she’d just been to Athens and said it was the most beautiful place she’d ever been to. I was already a week old at that point.

For someone who doesn’t know shit about where I come from, I do know a lot about my life. I absorb information like a sponge. I hear something and I can never unhear it. The storage in my brain works immaculately. Violet once said I had an eidetic memory, but I think she was just trying to make me feel special. She’s smart with stuff like that. Knows all sorts of things I don’t. She catches on quickly. Blends in too. We’re a dangerous mix, smart in different ways. Together, we’re a toxic mixture.

With nothing else of importance on the birth certificate, I flip it onto the empty side of the folder and look over the next paper—page one of my adoption.

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