Over dinner, he’d felt compelled to open up to some degree, at least to explain his absence all these years. Too much secrecy on his end would only add to their suspicions. The odds were already stacked against him. Sonia’s mother, Evelyn, had made it clear by her barbed remarks what she thought of adult children who neglected their elderly parents—reappearing to reap the benefits when they were gone. But, in her defense, Evelyn didn’t know about his troubled childhood. She had no concept of anything other than a healthy relationship with her own child. She was everything a mother should be: compassionate, caring, and available—emotionally and physically. She was also comfortable in her own skin, the type of woman who would fight tooth and nail for her child.
Celia, on the other hand, had been frightened of her own shadow. She had kowtowed to every one of her abusive husband’s unreasonable demands until she’d been stripped of any sense of self. Their dangerous and dysfunctional relationship had destroyed her children in more ways than she knew. Ray could understand why his mother had done what she’d done, but he couldn’t forgive her for it. Not when it led to the merciless abuse he and Tom had suffered at their father’s hands. What he’d done to them should have been enough to drive the weakest mouse to summon the courage to leave—flee barefoot if that’s what it took. The abuse hadn’t been limited to physical beatings; it was far worse than Ray had hinted at to Sonia—something he didn’t care to vocalize to another human being. It still chilled him to the bone every time he recalled being denied food or compelled to take cold showers as punishment for the smallest infractions. For more serious offenses, their father sometimes made them sleep in the dog pen in the garage overnight and humiliated them by forcing them to pee in the cat litter box. Ray and Tom had endured the kind of abuse that destroyed the soul of a child, and some people never came back from that dark place.
Instead of protecting them when they’d told their mother what was happening, she’d believed their father’s lies—pretended to believe them. Fear was a powerful paralytic agent. At sixteen, Ray had finally run away from home. Before he left, he’d promised fifteen-year-old Tom he would come back for him as soon as he found them a place to live. He hadn’t wanted to take Tom with him initially, knowing they would be sleeping rough on the streets, exposed to a whole new set of dangers for which they were ill-prepared. But he never got the opportunity to return for him. Tom bolted a few short weeks after Ray, disappearing in the middle of the night, giving no indication to anyone where he was heading or what his plans were, if any. Ray had spent the next few years agonizing over his brother’s fate, knowing how broken he was inside and fearing the worst—that he would end up dying in a gutter somewhere.
After years of intensive therapy, Ray had eventually managed to climb out of the dark hole he’d been in. He graduated from college with a degree in journalism and established a career for himself that he enjoyed—all the while wondering if Tom had been fortunate enough to find his place in the world too. At one point, Ray had even hired a reputable private investigator to try and track his brother down, but, despite months of extensive searching, she’d been unable to find any trace of him—no online presence, no address, no phone number, no history with law enforcement, no record of death. Ray had been forced to come to one of two conclusions: either Tom had died a John Doe, or he was living in isolation off the grid somewhere.
As young boys, they had both been fascinated by shows about surviving alone in Alaska or living a self-sufficient life as a prepper in some remote region. Maybe it was the idealized adventure the lifestyle promised, or maybe it was simply the relief of knowing you were completely safe from the people who had hurt you.
Ray grimaced, rubbing a scar on his knuckles that he’d earned from the buckle on his father’s belt. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d given up any hope of finding out what had become of Tom. It was ironic that their mother’s death had finally given him the answer he’d so desperately sought. But now that he had it, he wished the secret had stayed buried. His hope had always been that Tom had managed to create a life for himself where he was happy. He’d never for one minute suspected anything like the horror of what his brother had become. If he was right that the monthly transfers from their mother’s bank account had being going into Tom’s account, then she’d unwittingly been funding a dark, secret life.
Ray stared at the untouched plate of food he’d reheated in the microwave earlier. Could he really pull this off? He blew out a weary breath. What choice did he have but to keep going? He had Henry to think of. The boy had no one else left in his life but him.
Rising from the table, Ray tossed his dinner in the trash and retreated to the family room. He leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the room cluttered with antique nesting tables, velvet storage ottomans, and an endless array of knickknacks and lace doilies scattered over every surface. Perhaps it was true that the lonelier a person got, the more they surrounded
