Page 42 of The Piece You Stole

Dad’s poison was alcohol. It didn’t matter what it was as long as it was strong. He preferred whiskey, rum, vodka, or gin. The cheaper the better.

The first time I saw Clara and Derrick, they were standing just outside the apartment block when Dad and I were moving in. I think I was ten. White powder crusted their noses as they stood there, sniffing away, the whites of their eyes red, clothes stained and so foul smelling it had to have been a week, if not longer since they’d washed them.

Just as Dad didn’t care what liquor he drank, Clara and Derrick didn’t care what white powder they sniffed or injected. White powder was white powder, and they couldn’t get enough of it.

I tell myself I’m doing a good job ignoring the photograph and to keep doing a good job. But despite myself, my eyes drift to the date stamped on the bottom right-hand corner.

One glance and I look away, my heartbeat echoing loudly in my head. Frantic and too fast.Waytoo fast. Nearly three years ago, Nathan came back from running an errand for Rylan. I asked about it. At least, I think I did. If my heart would stop pounding so hard, maybe I could hear myself think.

Thump, Thump. Thump, Thump. Thump, Thump.

I squeeze my hands into fists so tight I lose all feeling in them. They sit on top of my thighs like heavy weights, no connection to me other than they happen to be attached to my arms.

The rhythmic pounding in my head gets louder. And faster. A screaming accompanies it. And all the while, my eyes continue to burn.

Think of Clara and Derrick. Think of something else.

But I don’t think of Clara and Derrick. I think of the photograph.

I don’t mean to, but suddenly I’m looking at it again, picking out the details that don’t matter as my eyes skip over the one thing in it that makes me want to scream and scream and never stop screaming.

Broken bottles and takeout containers lay strewn all over the stained carpet. The shattered remains of a TV remote lie just out of reach of his fingers. As if he were—

Don’t look, Saige. Don’t look.

Too late.

I focus on his too-white fingers. No matter what I do, I can’t make myself look away.

A long time ago, almost too long to remember, he could make anything with those hands. In our old house, he built a little shed for himself, a tiny wooden building made of aspen because it was always his favorite wood to use. He said it was the easiest to make into things.

He told me the wood knew what he wanted to turn it into, and it helped him instead of fighting him the way red oak or southern pine did. I didn’t understand how a piece of wood could know what he wanted and help him be that thing, but even though I didn’t understand, I would nod and agree because I always liked the way he said it. Like it was impossible for it not to be true. So, I believed him.

I loved the smell. The fresh wood, the varnish, the feeling ofpotentialin that tiny space.

It felt like anything could happen in there. Like he could make magic.

And he did.

Until Mom died and his magic died with her because he didn’t make anything ever again. Once, I asked him if he ever would again. His words are so crisp and clear it’s as if he whispers them right into my ear: “What would be the point if she isn’t around to see it or laugh?”

ButIwould see it, I told him all those years ago, andIwould laugh.

He just shook his head and walked away.

“Now.” Detective Bradley’s voice startles me so badly that I lose my fight against the tears I’m barely holding back. One works its way loose and splashes onto my cheek.

I dash the tear away, lightning quick. But it’s too late. The cops have already seen what this picture has done to me. Now they have a weakness to exploit.

They’ve done something I didn’t think I’d ever let them do. I let them get into my head.

I feel the energy in the room shift. Andnotin my favor.

One of the cops leans closer, I don’t know which because I’ve returned my gaze to my lap. Coffee wafts toward me. Detective Bradley. Detective Ferdinand drank water, so it’s Detective Bradley breathing his potent coffee breath over me.

“We spoke with your old boss at the Stationers Diner. Apparently, Daddy Dearest was in the habit of turning up to knock you about.”

Silence.

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