Chapter Thirty-One

Officer Nelson had sent him home, but Rocky’s hands trembled as he reached his uncle’s house. Part of him expected to see his uncle come bouncing out the front door or laughing around the corner welcoming him to come out back and have a drink. Neither happened, of course. Rocky stared at the front door, looking through the small porch where they’d found his father. Where Gabriel had left him to die. But if Gabriel was responsible for killing his dad, why had his body been left when no others had?

His father’s official cause of death was a heart attack. Maybe vampires couldn’t drink from someone who was dying. An accident, maybe?

Another reason came to mind. It was a message. A message meant for him.

Bastard.

Rocky stepped to the porch and stood at the busted door. Looking around the entryway, he saw so much of his uncle. His trusty red Coleman cooler, his waders hanging from a nail on the other side of the door, and of course, the babes in bikinis from his Hot Rod magazines plastering the limited wall space, a true tits-and-ass wallpaper, and probably part of the reason his uncle never had a girlfriend. Well, that and the fact that his uncle seemed content drinking beer and puttering around the yard and garage at will. Before meeting November, Rocky could have easily seen himself enjoying a lifetime of solitary comforts, wrapped up in music, movies, and a few burgers and drinks with Axel. Had Uncle Arthur ever met someone like her? Well, not just like her. No one was like her. Maybe there had been women. How well did he really know his uncle in his personal life? Rocky couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever asked his uncle about his likes and loves outside of cars or bands. Standing next to the porch’s broken screen door, picking at the splintered wood where the hinges had come off, he spotted a jackknife on the floor in the corner. Simple brown handle with a tarnished brass end. He picked it up and pulled out the blade. Tracing its edge with his thumb, he saw it was still sharp. He closed it up and slipped it into the pocket of his shorts.

He made a trip out back and gazed at the newly built porch he was supposed to have helped with. His uncle had known better than to wait for him and had finished it himself. Behind him sat the lawn chairs where they’d sat and drank after tearing the old porch down together. Turning back to the porch, he felt both a sense of sadness and accomplishment. Uncle Arthur was gone, most likely dead, but this was still here, standing like some kind of monument to him. Even when the house was sold to someone else, they’d use this place. Put tools or furniture out here. Sit out here in the warm mornings and drink coffee or tea. Maybe an old couple, talking about their past or their plans for the day. An old man and his garden out back by the blackberry bush. The old lady dead set to knit a new blanket for the sofa or tending to the flowers she’d put in every open corner of the house inside and out.

Someone would make something of this place.

Rocky smiled, just a little.

He headed to the street and started back to his house. He knew no one would be home. His mom was at Grammy Jan’s and Julie had decided to try and go back to work, which meant he’d have to find something to do until they got home. What would they say when he told them that he’d gone to the police? That he’d pointed the finger for all the killings and disappearances at November’s brother. They wouldn’t be upset with him, he knew that. He figured he had about the longest leash of any teenager anywhere after what he’d gone through. He had no intentions of taking advantage of the situation, but it was nice knowing that he could make mistakes.

He’d intended to take the side roads home, but found himself drawn to the centre of town, to more people. The sun and the sounds of summer, still alive and well, at least in the daylight, surrounded him at every turn. Girls in their summer clothes, guys with their tongues wagging after them, parents and their children in bright coloured shirts and shorts, Polaroids or disposable Kodaks in their hands. Little kids with their faces painted in melted ice cream, at least half a dozen dragging behind crying about being tired and wanting to go home. The heartbeat of his town seemed to be taunting him.

The beach and the waves were where they always were, crashing and splashing on an ocean so cold it made your ankles numb to walk into. That would change near the end of August; by that time, the Atlantic would have warmed up to maybe sixty degrees, which would feel like a hot tub compared to what it was right now.

He was almost home when he found himself wondering what may or may not have happened at the cottage. Officer Nelson seemed to believe Gabriel was responsible for something. Kidnap and murder? Maybe not, but Rocky had sensed the man’s fear. Like his own when Gabriel stood in front of him. Would November get in trouble?

He reached the end of his driveway and grabbed the mail. More letters from family he hadn’t heard from in a million years. He sifted through the envelopes, reading the return addresses. Aunt Joan and Uncle Allan up near Augusta, Great Grandma Lilian and her boyfriend Stan in Monmouth. Dad’s friend Gary and his wife, Ruth, from work. He grabbed the letter and a Welby Superdrug flyer and stopped cold at the door. There was another envelope taped there.

Rocky – For yours eyes only.

-G

His heart began to hammer in his chest. He spun around, scanning his and the neighbours’ yards for any sign of movement. Cars continued to whiz by and a slew of people made their way to or from town along the sidewalks, but he couldn’t see Gabriel anywhere.

He set the mail under his arm on the stoop and sat down with the letter addressed to him.

Holding the plain white envelope, he felt a familiar shape within. It was a picture. A Polaroid. He was afraid to see it.

Carefully, he slid his finger in the corner of the envelope and swiped across under the flap, opening it. He reached in and took the picture in hand, letting the envelope fall to the ground.

He raised the Polaroid and felt the world begin to burst at the seams. He couldn’t breathe; he knew he was going to throw up.

He turned to the side and vomited in the grass.

The image pummeled his insides.

When his stomach was empty, he sniffled the snot from his nose and wiped his eyes, the picture still clutched in his hand.

He looked at it again and the river of deceit and disbelief flooded him all over.

November, lips overrun with blood, had her mouth buried in Uncle Arthur’s ruined throat.

Rocky hugged his legs, burying his face in his knees, and grieved.

His uncle was most certainly dead, and his girlfriend was a fucking liar and a killer.