Page 130 of Chokehold
My shoulders shake from the force, but I’m done fighting the foreign emotions that have resided inside me ever since I met Cole. No walls high enough could have protected me from this.
I saw my arm across my damp eyes and fetch my phone from my pocket. There are no new messages or calls from Cole.
“Fuck,” I whisper, willing it to vibrate with an incoming text. “Please, just tell me where you are.”
Tossing the phone back down, I rest my elbow on the door where it meets the window, and rub my lips with my middle and forefingers. The rain bounces off the pavement as the wind whips through the branches of the trees lining the road.
It’s a miserable fucking day.
I pick my phone back up to google his father while the windows slowly steam up. When that doesn’t return anything I haven’t already read, I look up our local police department and spend endless minutes skim-reading pointless articles. But at least I’m doing something. That’s what I tell myself when a logging truck thunders past.
An incoming text from Tiago steals my attention. He has checked up on me more times than I can count in the last couple of days. I appreciate it, but I also wish he would leave me alone.
Swiping the notification off the screen, I reach for the keys and turn the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I check my mirrors before pulling away from the side of the road.
The drive across town to Cole’s childhood home doesn’t take long. I park outside the derelict house and peer through the passenger window. It’s just as depressing as last time.
After unbuckling the seat belt, I exit the car. The rain has stopped, and I skirt around puddles in the cracked pavement.
I cast a look down the street to ensure no one is around to pay attention. I’m alone. The gate squeaks open ominously on its rusty hinges. My lungs expand on a shaky inhale, and I ask myself, not for the first time, what the fuck I’m doing. The police have already searched the property. They’re not here.
But I have to check it out for myself. I can’t sit around a minute longer while the police flounder like washed-up, gasping fish.
I jog up the sagging porch.
A wind chime attached to the roof plays a tinkling, haunted tune. There’s something inherently creepy about this place—an evil that lingers in the air and refuses to leave.
I almost wish I had brought sage or something to cleanse this place of ghosts and I don’t even believe in that crap.
As I apply pressure to the rotten wood, the door creaks open, and dried leaves drift across the floor. I step over a console table that lies upturned on the mucky floor and breathe in the dank and stale air.
When was the last time someone opened a window?
As I make my way deeper into the house, it soon becomes obvious that it has been abandoned for some time. Damask wallpaper peels away from the corners, dark mold grows on the roof in blotchy patches, and a thin layer of dust covers every surface. I struggle to picture Cole growing up here, but this is the horrifying truth of his past. These are his roots.
I pause in the living room doorway and scan the dark room. Heavy, moth-eaten curtains frame the windows, blocking outthe daylight. A small sliver breaks through the gap, and dust mites float peacefully in an eternal dance, forever adrift.
Crossing the room, I skirt the flowery couch and pull the curtains open to flood the room with light, then cough when it disturbs the dust. “Fuck…” I waft the air, looking around.
A forgotten can of beer still sits on the coffee table, like the owner of the house rose from the armchair one day, walked out, and never returned.
As I drift my fingers over the dusty couch, it dawns on me how little I know about Cole. I want to know every secret he’s ever told, every nightmare that’s kept him up at night, and every fantasy he’s pictured while touching himself.
The less I realize I know, the more I want to dig beneath his skin until I unearth all those secrets he guards close to his heart. I don’t care if I have to carve him open to get at what he’s hiding at his core.
I walk the length of the room, drifting my fingers over every surface, feeling an inexplicable urge to touch his past.
Disturbing the dust on the empty bookshelf, I imagine a much younger Cole doing the same.
A freestanding lamp in the corner lacks its lampshade. The electricity has long since been cut, so nothing happens when I pull the string, but I still picture it flooding the room with an ambient golden glow.
I’m just about to turn around and leave the room, when my eyes snag on a framed medal on the wall. I walk closer, tilting my head sideways. It looks out of place in this run-down, miserable house.
It’s an award. A bravery award with Cole’s dad’s name, to be exact.
Huh…
Cole never mentioned it. And it’s also difficult to imagine the drunk, unhinged man who fired the gun on his son as the recipient of such a prestigious award.
