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Two months ago ...
Most days Cody Brannigan liked his job. It offered the distraction he needed from the pain that had chewed at his heart day after day for the past twenty-one months and fourteen days. He liked fixing the employees’ computers when a hard drive crashed, or installing new software when an update came through. The pay wasn’t great—the Department of Social Services always got the leftovers from the government’s budget, and every year it seemed like they made more cuts—but the benefits and paid time off made up for it.
Cody long ago lost faith that the government—like many cynical Americans, he used the term as a pejorative for what he saw as an unchecked leviathan feeding on its own excesses—attached any importance to the growing needs of the poor, the underprivileged, the marginalized. Unwed single mothers. Children born into poverty. Foster children. And the list grew on and on of those who applied for their services. While the numbers of the needy grew, the dollars allotted them shrunk. A vicious cycle that siphoned any chance of betterment for a hopeless minority of Americans.
Sitting at his desk, the past hour empty and quiet, he wondered why he hadn’t taken the day off. While it’d been weeks since Scott Guffrey was found dead, the cops were still buzzing around, this morning pulling Cody in for questioning ... again. Unusual circumstances in that neighborhood for a man to be stabbed to death in his own living room. Cody chided himself; he should have called in sick, distanced himself from the office gossip about him as he walked in late after his police interview—hell, it was an interrogation, pure and simple. He had grown weary of the whole thing, from the media circus that still permeated every news outlet, Facebook page, office, and street corner. The perpetual drama was draining, a raw reminder of what happened to Kat.
His eyes shone with fresh tears, the taste of salt filling his mouth. He needed a phone call to answer, an email to reply to, a computer to fix. Anything to empty his crowded thoughts. That was his favorite part of working here—always something to do. Except for today, when he really needed it. The mundanity of the nine-to-five grind gave him something to look forward to each morning. Anything was better than the empty space in his bed where Kat used to curl up next to him in the dead of night; in the morning he’d turn over to find her eyes closed but lips grinning. While she pretended to be asleep, he’d pretend not to see her as he rolled over on her until she’d puddle into a fit of giggles and squeals. These were the fondest memories, the daily ones that he missed so much. The ones that had become part of his everyday existence. These moments made him who he was.
Who was he without her? For the past twenty-one months and fourteen days he had become no one. An automaton that was good at his job. But it was no kind of life, and he didn’t try to fool himself otherwise.
He had survived his own child. He couldn’t move on, no matter how hard he tried. The newest victim was Tempest, the other daughter, like she was a shadow of what he lost, an apparition of Kat, there but not really. His weekend visits with Tempest hadn’t been enough to fill the void. He’d never connected with her like he did Kat, not in the fun way. Kat was his firstborn, a daddy’s girl who hung on his every word, lived to please him with her silly jokes, goofy expressions, and playful antics. A jokester, like him. An out-and-out tomboy. Yet the depth of her compassion, her understanding of the world, revealed itself when she would wrap her small arms around his neck, her bright eyes evoking an understanding of the harsh realities of life as she’d remind him, “Daddy, someday life will get better.”
Tempest, her polar opposite, was coolly impassive, much like her mother. A bookworm, but she also had a temper like her mom’s. So much so, in fact, that sometimes he could barely tolerate her when she got mouthy.
The ring of his desk phone startled him. It was Jackson Jones, a longtime colleague and friend, the one who actually found him the job here at the Department of Social Services.
“Hey, man. Computer crashed again. Can you take a look?”
“Sure, I’ll be right there.”
Another computer frozen, another unsuccessful reboot. God only knows what Jackson had done to his computer this time with all his online gaming and internet browsing that they were “prohibited” from doing.
Five minutes later Cody sent Jackson to the break room so he could tinker with the computer. Five more minutes later and he’d figured out why Jackson’s computer kept crashing. The idiot had forgotten to wipe his browsing history ... and evidence of all the viruses he’d pretty much invited from downloading porn.
As Cody went about emptying the cache, one of the links looked odd to him. He clicked on it and was confronted with a horrifying picture of a nude little girl. Maybe five or six. Kat’s age when she was taken. Tempest’s age now. His stomach lurched. His vision swam.
His finger reflexively closed the browser as he felt his head fog, the earth shift and slip. This had to be a mistake. Jackson certainly couldn’t ... wouldn’t ... Not children. Not his friend. A man he golfed with, played poker with, for crying out loud.
When Jackson returned, a shallow pool of anger within Cody rose, his body shaking with white-hot anger. Jackson’s face registered shame in his beady, wide eyes and creased forehead.
“What is this crap on your computer, Jackson? Are you looking at kiddie porn?” His finger jabbed Jackson’s chest mercilessly. “And don’t lie, because I saw what I saw.”
Jackson’s lips moved but his words were stuck somewhere in his throat. It was all the affirmation Cody needed.
“I can’t believe this. I should turn you in to the cops, man. You’re sick!” Several heads popped up from their cubicles around the room.
“Shhh!” Jackson begged. “Please don’t tell anyone. Melanie will kill me.”
“Oh, you think Melanie will kill you? Wait until your fellow inmates get a hold of you.”
“It’s not what you think. I was only just looking once.”
“Once—like that’s any better? The fact that you’re looking at it at all is messed up! I don’t even know what to say.” Clenching his fists, he inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. It was a meditative trick his psychiatrist had taught him to get through the panic attacks shortly after Kat went missing. Back when the anxiety first started. It was the same psychiatrist Jackson had recommended.
“We’ve been friends forever, Cody. I’m already getting help. Please give me a chance. As a friend.”
“Friend? I don’t even know you anymore.” Clench, release. Clench, release.
“I swear, it’s not as bad as it looks. I’m getting better—seeing a professional.”
The thought struck Cody that Jackson had been seeing his therapist for this exact problem ... for years. This wasn’t a one-time deal, was it?
“You make me sick, Jackson. I can’t even look at you.” Cody turned away, closing his eyes against the roiling in his stomach.
“Please, man, don’t tell anyone.”
“I can’t promise that. And Helen needs to know, because I don’t want you anywhere near Tempest. She needs to know not to bring Tempest to your place when she’s visiting Melanie. Who she tells, well, that’s up to her.”
They both knew Helen Brannigan wasn’t exactly famous for keeping her mouth shut.