“Forgot about what?” said Josh.
“You’ll see,” said Richard. “Please try to be patient. Here, hold the light for me while I see if I can demolish this wall.”
He kicked the wall. Josh watched Richard with growing disbelief. He wondered if he was having a hallucination triggered by the stress of his mother’s diagnosis. Everything had felt unreal since he had found out she was dying.
Richard kicked the wall again, and the plaster cracked. He knelt down, pulled out several handfuls of insulation, and reached his arm into the gaping hole. He retrieved a wide variety of items, many of which had no discernable value, and with each passing moment, he became more frantic. At last, he gave a tremendous sigh of relief and pulled out a notebook. The cover was stained with mold, and the pages were discolored with age.
“I knew this would be useful someday,” he said with a triumphant chuckle, clutching the notebook tightly against his chest as if he were afraid someone might try to take it away from him. “Mark my words, there’s nothing more important than keeping meticulous records. Let’s go into the other room.”
They sat down at the table. Richard laid the notebook between them and opened it with a flourish. Josh could tell at a glance that it had been prepared with the greatest of care. The pages were covered with what he assumed was Richard’s handwriting, and sketches in exquisite detail were scattered throughout. It was a work of art.
“This is my personal account of the work Peterson and I did together,” said Richard in a solemn voice. “It contains all his secrets and all my misgivings. With this information, it will be child’s play to follow in his footsteps.”
Josh didn’t reply. Peterson had always existed in his life as something that couldn’t be discussed—a subject to be avoided at all costs. He remembered the name from the earliest recollections of his childhood, like a bad dream that had faded over time. He knew Peterson was somehow connected with his family, but the details remained a mystery. Had circumstances been different, he would have been delighted to discover the truth, but with his mother on death’s door, he found the entire subject repulsive.
“You’re speechless,” said Richard. “I knew you would be. You’ve failed to grasp the significance of the situation, but I brought you along for a reason—a reason that probably isn’t obvious to you at the moment. You’ve lived your whole life in a fantasy. You deserve better. I could explain everything to you right now, but you wouldn’t believe me, so I won’t waste my time.”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Josh.
“Probably not,” said Richard. “Suffice it to say, your mom loves you more than you know. She just isn’t very good at expressing it. I’m afraid that sort of thing runs in the family. Your dad isn’t any different, and neither am I.”
“My parents never even talked about you,” said Josh.
“Unfortunately, I can’t discuss the subject,” said Richard.
“Why not?” said Josh. He thought it was ironic that Richard had showed him the house and the notebook if he intended to keep him in the dark.
“I’m sorry, Josh,” said Richard. “Your dad made his wishes very clear. If you’re curious, you’re going to have to ask him. It’s not my place to tell you anything else. Come on, let’s get out of here before Peterson shows up.”
He shook the notebook. An envelope fluttered from between the pages and fell on the floor. Josh leaned over and picked it up. He held it out to Richard, but Richard didn’t take it.
“I can be oblivious to almost anything,” said Richard. “It’s no joke getting old. I hope you live long enough to understand what I mean. My memory is so bad that I might not even admit to bringing you here.”
Richard’s behavior baffled Josh. He turned his attention to the envelope. There was nothing written on it except the address. Someone had torn it open, leaving a jagged edge of wrinkled paper. He saw a letter inside. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and looked at the salutation. The letter was addressed to Richard.
“Go ahead,” said Richard.
Josh began to read. By the time he got to the middle of the page, he couldn’t continue. The letter was full of threats against his father—vivid descriptions of raw brutality that made him feel sick, even though he knew none of the things had actually happened. Looking at the date at the top of the letter, he calculated that his father had been a young child when it had been written. As his eyes wandered down to the bottom of the page, he already had a premonition of the name he would see there: sure enough, it was Peterson’s.
“The man could have been a poet if he hadn’t been consumed by hatred,” said Richard. “He had a way with words. He was creative, too, but not in a good way. As you can imagine, I was terrified. I took my family and fled, but Peterson found us every time we moved, and letters similar to the one you just read arrived on a regular basis, no matter where we went. I alerted the authorities, but they couldn’t prove he was responsible, so nothing was done. We lived in a constant state of fear.”
“I thought he was in prison,” said Josh.
“He was, but that didn’t stop him,” said Richard. “It just gave him more time to sit around and think. He wanted revenge. After he was found guilty, while they
