From the street, it looks like a shack. At times, it was. At times, we didn’t even have running water or a toilet that would fully work. My father would grab buckets in the nearby stream, and I would take showers with them. One initial, ice-cold water bucket to lather up and then one to rinse off the shampoo/conditioner and soap.
In commercials, I’d see these models on TV talking about how to tame their curly hair, and I’d long for it. Just something to make me feel a little normal. None of the women looked like they were taking ice-cold showers with rusty buckets. In fact, my shampoo and conditioner come from the dollar store, and I use them sparingly.
However, the two times I’ve taken a shower in Jacobs Manor has already made my hair feel ten thousand times better.
“Where the fuck are we?”
Lucas smacks Wyatt.
“We,” I say, throwing his door open and quickly shutting it again when Stone pulls in to shield us from the deluge of dirt his tires kicked up. “...are at my house.”
“This piece of shit?”
“Jesus, Wyatt. Shut the fuck up,” Lucas snarls.
He’s not wrong, but I feel it all the same. The shame. Growing up, I tried not to let other people’s words get to me, but when they had a hint of truth, it was hard not to. I often wondered why the hell Marilyn would even look at my dad. Not when she had Lance. I rationalized it because I knew how much of a dick he was and that my father was just plain awesome, but now that I’ve seen the other side, I think I’d be willing to put up with a lot just to have consistent running water.
Though, Marilyn came in at the right time. She didn’t have to deal with all the house issues I had to. We haven’t had plumbing issues in years.
When the cloud of dust settles, I push the truck door open again and climb off Wyatt’s lap to jump to the ground. The four of us meet in front of the cars. I stare at the house for a moment, thinking of my dad. When I peek at the guys, they’re all wearing various levels of distaste. Confusion. Shock. Sneers.
No one outside my father, Marilyn, and I—and of course my grandfather who built it—have ever been inside this house. I know it’s nothing like Stone’s place. It has the workings of a madman inside. I used to try to keep up with all the paperwork he had, organize it somehow, but he seemed to like it strewn about where he could pick it up at a moment’s notice and work on something on a whim. I just tried to keep it contained to one pile each on every flat surface.
When Marilyn first came, she cleaned the place from top to bottom, but as time went on, she just gave up too. My dad’s stuck in his ways.
I clear my throat, letting the memories hit me. They go back in time, getting more familiar but harder to bear. It reminds me of just how alone I am right now.
Walking forward, I take out my own keys and unlock the front door. It isn’t as if it’s keeping anybody out. You could just put a hole in the side of the house to get in if you wanted to, but crime in Clary is practically nonexistent. The door creaks as it falls open, and I lead them into the big room that’s the kitchen, dining, and living area, filled with shabby furniture and open shelving that shows every out-of-place item.
I swallow a lump in my throat. We’re miles away from Stone’s place. Not just in distance, but in quality of living.
I turn abruptly to face them, hoping to take their attention off the mess. “My father has years of research in this house. I can show you where it is, but—”
“This is a big step for you,” Stone says, voice low. Not like he’s trying to beat me to the punch line of my own sentence, but like he’s acknowledging that this shit is sacred to my family. It won’t give away the greatest secrets, but it gives a lot.
I nod, thankful that he at least gets it on a surface level. “This is a leap of faith, and I’m imploring you to let it stay here. To not publicize what you find,” I say, staring at Stone whose discerning gaze keeps darting around the room. “This is years and years of my family’s work, and I’d rather it stay in the family.”
He focuses back on me. “You have my word.”
“Mine, too,” Lucas agrees.
“Really, Tits?” Wyatt asks. He gives me a smirk. “Who am I going to tell?”
Their assurances only give me a slight reprieve from my hesitation. When I lead them down the hallway, my feet feel like cement blocks trying to wade through mud, and I half-wonder if my father is sending me messages not to do what I’m about to. He would kill me. He would disown me.
But I have to find him. And it’s not just the creepy as fuck note that has me positive that if I find the treasure, I’ll find my dad. It’s because if I know anything about Clark Wilder, it’s that he wouldn’t dare die until he found the treasure. Or, he would’ve died trying.
I nudge my father’s study door open with my shoe and come to a halt. Wyatt’s chest bumps against me, and I step into the study with a gasp.
There’s shit everywhere. The desk is upended. All of the cupboards have been torn down. Paper litters the floor with
