Page 92 of What's the time, Mr. Wolfe
I felt like utter shit. My cheeks felt chapped and sore from crying so much. My nose was red, my eyes swollen. My lips were dry, and my throat was sore. My body ached.
Just a couple of days ago I’d felt so happy. Now I was a wreck. I had to go back to work in the morning, but I had no idea how I’d function. Another thought hit me.
Mike had said some of the guys were ex-cons. Tony had said some of the guys were from the home. Had my father hurt them as well? How had no one there connected me to him?
I sat up. There was no way I could keep mulling over these questions. I needed some answers.
I walked downstairs and found Sebastian sitting in the living room. He held a book in his hands, and he lowered it when he saw me.
“Come here, baby,” he said, patting the sofa beside him.
I sat and curled into his side. “I have some questions and I really need answers to them.”
“I imagine so. Ask away, Ruby.”
“What did he do to you?”
Sebastian sighed. “He did nothing to me, personally.It’s what he did to others that is unforgiveable. I met your dad when I was in juvenile prison. Did you know he had been convicted of child abuse?”
I sat back and stared up at him. “In prison? He was born in Spain.”
“Yes, he was. He came to the UK with your grandmother, Ruby. He was convicted of child abuse, physical abuse. He befriended kids on the streets, in homes, and trafficked them.”
I shook my head. “Are you sure you have the right person?”
He gently stood. “Come with me.”
We headed to a small room that he used as a home office. He took a key from a cabinet and opened a drawer. Sebastian pulled out a folder and laid it down. He then looked at me.
“Are you ready to see this? This,” he said, tapping the folder, “will throw what you think you know about your family in the air. I would rather you didn’t do this. But, on this occasion, I’m going to step aside and let you choose.”
I walked to the desk and stared at the folder. In the corner was a photograph. It certainly was my father, and one taken many years ago, probably before he met my mother.
“Did he meet my mother in Spain?”
“No.”
“They went to Spain together, though, yes?”
“Yes. After he got out of prison.”
“Is that why you couldn’t find him?”
“Yes. Although I did look in Spain.”
I stilled and stared. I didn’t open it. “Were they my parents?” I asked, quietly.
“I don’t know.”
“I wasn’t abused, not sexually.”
“I didn’t say hesexuallyabused children.” He sighed deeply. “He sold children, abandoned children, to wealthy couples without any checks or care for the kid. He kidnapped them from the home. That is what he went to prison for.”
“Why isn’t he still locked up?”
“Because he was a teen himself. He didn’t kill anyone. It was thought he was working for a larger gang, and he was thrown to the wolves to save arses higher up.”
Thrown to the wolves.
