Never Tell Them N.L. Hinkens (books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📖

He might have unloaded a bunch of boxes there and been too busy with work and getting Henry settled into school to get around to them.

After turning on the fluorescent strip light in the garage, he swept a glance around the musty space. The contents looked like they’d lain undisturbed for quite some time—no moving boxes in sight. His eyes traveled up and down the sagging shelving on the back wall, searching for anything that might have been a recent addition. Between the mice droppings and the thick layer of dust encrusted on every surface, he couldn’t envision leaving his belongings out here—and definitely not his son’s clothes and toys. The place was in desperate need of a thorough cleaning. He was about to head back inside when it occurred to him that his mother might have some things from his childhood stashed in the garage. Doctor Robinson had encouraged him to look through family photos and personal items in an effort to speed up his recovery. The photo album in the family room hadn’t helped—but it couldn’t do any harm to go through a few boxes of his mother’s stuff.

He pulled out the ladder jammed between a lawnmower and a metal file cabinet on the back wall and leaned it against the shelving, surprised to see fingerprints in the dust. Maybe Sonia had borrowed the ladder recently for something or other. He climbed up a rung and lifted down a cardboard box that had burst a seam. Gingerly, he removed the crumpled newspaper protecting the contents and reached for a photo frame lying upside down on top. He flipped it over, his heart seizing so violently in his chest he thought he would pass out. He grabbed onto a shelf to prevent himself from crumpling to the floor. Beads of sweat needled his forehead. An all-too-familiar sensation of panic took hold, as a current of fiery fear moved steadily through his veins. He recognized that face staring back at him; the hard set of the granite eyes above the thick-lipped grimace. That same expression he always wore right before he turned, sliding his belt from his pants with serpent-like cunning.

Sick to his stomach, Ray tossed the frame back in the box and shoved it back into place before hurriedly returning the ladder to the spot he’d found it in. His legs trembled beneath him. He couldn’t do this now, he was too weak, too confused. Broken images sparked in his brain, beckoning to memories he didn’t want to face—shouts of anger, spittle flying, a flurry of fists. Blood—so much blood. He stumbled from the garage back into the family room, collapsing into the closest chair. For a long time, he sat slumped in it, staring across the room at nothing in particular, sweaty palms resting on the doilies draped over the arms. What had he done? The thought terrified him, but he had to know.

When his legs felt strong enough to support him, he retrieved the photo album of his childhood from the cubby beneath the television. He leafed through it again, stopping every now and then to study a photo, trying to coax some long-lost memory out from the rock it had scuttled under. He scrutinized the photo of himself and Tom on the last page—the picture of normality.

But the look of desperation in Tom’s eyes told a different story.

15

The gears in Ray’s mind went into overdrive as he tried to process the questions flying through it. Why did those disturbing images of a fight keep flashing to mind? He couldn’t remember the abusive childhood he’d told Sonia about, but there was no mistaking the visceral reaction he’d had when he found that photo of his father and the hopeless look in Tom’s eyes. Had he attacked his father in some misguided bid to protect his little brother? Was that why he’d run away from home? Each time he tried to lock on to a memory, his thoughts disintegrated like fraying string.

His gaze slid to the newspaper clipping on the end table. Sonia had wondered why he’d saved the article, but he didn’t have an answer for that either. He didn’t know the missing Booneville girl, or her family—or anyone else in this town, for that matter.

He eventually fell into a troubled sleep in the lumpy armchair, assailed by nightmares which left him gasping for air. His heartbeat raced to the point of explosion in his chest each time the images poked their way through to the surface of his mind—a volley of fists and blood, and always the hazy face of a man. Sometimes, he thought he could make out his father’s cruel stare; at other times he found himself looking into Tom’s terrified eyes. Confusion gripped his brain like a vice. Who had he been fighting? And what had they been fighting about? Was it possible he’d actually killed his father? Maybe it had been a terrible accident. He might have been trying to protect Tom. But that wasn’t what was turning the blood in his veins to ice. Something bad had happened to instigate the fight—something very bad. He felt it in his bones.

After finally falling into a deep sleep in the early morning hours, Ray woke with a jolt shortly after 9:00 a.m. His head pounded mercilessly, and every joint ached from the awkward position he’d slept in, but he groaned and forced himself to his feet. He had promised to pick Henry up by ten, and he was determined not to show up late—he’d already asked too much of his neighbors.

Scrubbing his hands over his face to wake himself fully, he plodded down to the master bedroom and opened the closet to retrieve some clean clothes. His gaze fell on a shoebox overflowing with papers on the shelf above him. A quick glance inside revealed a sheaf of bank statements. Frowning, he set it aside to take up to the kitchen with him. Sonia had mentioned something about an unusual bank transfer