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Several empty chairs were scattered throughout the kitchen, den and hall. It was no surprise to him that his mother’s home had been overrun with people. Wilson sat at his mother’s kitchen table reflecting as his friends brainstormed on ways to help find Natasha. Silently he took inventory of every person in the room. He thought to himself, how well do I really know these people? He was growing suspicious of everyone. Wilson stared each of them in the face. The leads were drying up; his patience and tolerance were running thin. He peered over at a large portrait of himself hanging on the wall from when he graduated from the police academy. His eyes were bright, filled with so much hope and optimism. He wanted to be one of the good guys like his dad. He took this job because he wanted to keep people safe. But his sister hadn’t been safe, in fact he was starting to feel like no one was safe anymore. The sound of several loud voices pulled him away from his thoughts. It seems his friends had come up with a plan to help find Natasha.
Samuel Iason, an emergency room physician and the closest of his group of childhood friends was the first to voice the plan to assist with finding Natasha. He looked directly at Wilson and suggested they offer a large monetary reward. Speaking with assurance he said, “Wilson, money talks...I am sure valuable tips and information will start rolling in if the price is right.” Samuel reached in his pocket and grabbed his checkbook and a pen that was laying on the table.
Wilson became uneasy when Samuel pulled out his checkbook. He never asked his friends for money and he was not about to start now. Raising his hand, he said, “Don’t. We don’t need your money.”
“Have you lost your mind? She’s like a sister to me.” Ignoring Wilson, he opened his checkbook and began to write.
Shayla the mother of his deceased daughter sat down her coffee mug and spoke up, “I think we should offer the reward to the person who turns the kidnappers in.”
“Are you crazy?” He bellowed this isn’t some Mel Gibson movie; my sister is missing. He felt his nerves turning over in his stomach. Her comment stung, he wished he thought of it himself.
She shook her head, “just hear me out. What if you did an interview offering the money to anyone whose information leads to the capture of the men who took Natasha.”
“Wilson, we’re all here to help,” Pamela Crawford, an attorney, and another longtime friend spoke up. She pulled out her checkbook as well.
All six of his closest friends wrote checks, letting their money do the talking. They were deeply concerned and sincere. They wanted to find Natasha just as much as Wilson and his family; if money would help to keep the search going and the leads flowing, so be it.
Wilson felt cold winds of bitterness creep up his spine as Shayla stepped beside him. He tried to move over without looking like a child running away from his mother.
He shifted his gaze to her and all he could see was the angelic face of their daughter Camryn. In his anger, he wanted to take her check from her and rip it up in her face. Regretfully there was a part of him that still loved her. After the death of their daughter, he labeled her a murderer, but his mother often reminded him that Shayla was family.
Softly, he heard her whisper, “Wilson, here is my contribution. I’m praying for her safe return.” She dropped the check in the center of the table, then joined his mother in the kitchen.
Her voice still had the ability to awaken the vulnerable parts of his soul he had shut off after the death of his father. He quickly moved to the other side of the room, hoping no one saw their exchange.
Lillian Carmichael, the shadiest of his friends asked, “How far are you willing to go to get Natasha back?”
Wilson felt his heart rate increase and the rage he fought to contain began to spill over. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because if looks could kill right now, I’d be dead.”
Wilson pushed away from the table. “I’d be willing to go to hell and back to get my sister. I’ll do anything.” He stormed away and walked into the kitchen where his mother and Shayla appeared to be in deep conversation. Pictures of Natasha were all over the table. From the look on his mother’s face, Wilson knew she was close to tears. He watched Shayla slide out of her chair to embrace his mother.
The day Camryn died rushed to the forefront of his mind. His blood began a low boil.
Remembering what Lillian asked, stirred his frustration. I’m willing to kill. I’m even willing to die.
This pain and anger were both overwhelming. He needed something to relax and something fast. He navigated over to a nearby cabinet and opened the doors. Starring in his face was a bottle of liquor. He reached up, touching it.
It would taste good going down. Wilson imagined the warmth of the liquor spreading down his throat and into his stomach. His old cravings kicked into high gear. He could feel the monkey trying to latch onto his back.
He picked up the bottle, examining it.
Wilson felt her presence behind him.
Shayla reached from behind him, taking the bottle out of his hand. “You don’t need that.”
He turned to face her. “Your mom needs you.”
Wilson stared as she placed the half-empty bottle back on the shelf and closed the doors. He could not believe she just did that, who does she think she is. He clenched his fists shut and shoved them into his pockets. It was all he could do not to grab and choke her until her breath drifted out of her body.
Instead of acknowledging her comment about what he needed he gritted his teeth, reached around her, and grabbed a bottle of water. For two seconds he almost forgot he hated her.