Little Black Book

She watched helplessly as the pages floated from her hand to the floor. The news of her father’s sudden death came as a shock. As the last page flutters quietly to rest, one single tear slips slowly down her pale cheek. Music starts to play from down the long hallway leading to her office door. It is a forlorn ballad fitting for the moment and her shoulders tense as she regains her composure. Straightening her shoulders and clearing her voice, she proceeds to retrieve the packet of papers that served to inform her of her father’s demise. Peter Wakefield was a fraud, a deceiver, a villain. He left years ago, but here he was back in her life once more, only dead this time.

“Ms. Wakefield?” the question jarred Olivia from her wanderings. “I’m sorry the courier also delivered this as well.” Olivia watched as the receptionist timidly strolled across the room. She studied the girl. Mousy brown hair pulled back too tight into a high ponytail. No makeup on skin that looked dry and in need of lotion. Clothes that looked like they had been hand washed and hung to dry in a dingy New York apartment. She tripped slightly as she stepped the final step nearly landing in Olivia’s lap. “Um, I’m sorry Ms.!” She flushed, giving color to her dry cheeks. Handing Olivia, a small package, she then made a hasty retreat, the door softly clicking closed behind her.

Turning the yellow package over in her hands, Olivia stared at it a moment before tearing it open. As the torn packaging fell away, a soft as velvet-covered black book emerged. She ran her hand over the outside feeling the smooth, soft texture of the outside. It reminded her of a Bible in its size and shape. It was bound together with two tightly woven strands and expertly secured with a beautiful knot. There were no writings on the outside to indicate what may be written within its pages. As she began to lift the knot to undo it, she was startled by the ringing of her phone. She pressed the speaker button on the obtrusive machine.

“Olivia Wakefield?” a strong male voice questioned.

“Yes, may I ask who is calling?” she replied.

“Olivia Wakefield, Peter Wakefield’s daughter?” the voice sounded rushed.

Hesitantly Olivia replied, “Yes.” The line went quiet.

“Hello? Are you there? Hello?” Nothing. The line was completely silent.

Olivia punched the button on the keypad to end the call. Shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts she rose from her chair and gathered her things including her father’s papers and the black book and left the office for the day. It would be days later before she opened the book. Days before she discovered what lay beyond the cover.

The funeral was dull and droll. That is not to say that most are not, but this one was oddly so. No one attended except Olivia Wakefield and the funeral home attendants. She expected that he had friends or associates that would be in attendance but was surprised when no one else walked through the doors. No one shed a tear for the man except for the lone tear she had shed the day she received the news. Once the service was over and she made her way to her car she noticed a man standing across the street watching. He was dressed in all black. Typical of a man dressed for a funeral. He had dark glasses on, she could not see his eyes. She wanted to see his eyes. You could tell a lot about a person by their eyes. She paused at the end of the walkway before turning to walk toward her car, what did he want? He looked slightly away and then turned toward the black sedan he was standing beside and opened the door and slid inside. When the door closed, the engine revved and the car sped away. Olivia stood watching the empty space the car once occupied. This day had been so strange, and she was glad it was over she admitted to herself.

It was Saturday morning, and the news was playing on the tv when Olivia padded into the kitchen for her morning coffee. The black book sat there on the counter beckoning to be opened. Pouring herself a strong cup of coffee and morning paper in hand she vowed to look at the book later in the day.

She was reading about the latest news on a rash of local robberies they believed were linked to a group of teenage boys, when her doorbell rang. She laid the paper over the black book and made her way to the door. She could see who was there before she opened it. The man from the funeral home.

She stopped five feet from the door and called out, “Can I help you?”

His voice was deep and sounded vaguely familiar, “Olivia Wakefield? My name is Max Davis, I’m a detective. Can we talk?”

Olivia hesitated. “How do I know you are who you say you are?” Olivia watched through the glass as Max reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and stuck it through her mail slot. She inched slowly forward keeping her eyes on Max. When she was within a foot length of the wallet, she kicked it back toward herself and bent to pick it up and reveal his ID.

Once Olivia and Max were comfortably settled, Max began. “When I heard that your father died, I had to come and see for myself.” He straightened his shirt uncomfortably. “Your father was a friend of mine. I didn’t think he would ever lay down so easy.”

Olivia tilted her head to the side slightly. “Lay down? What do you mean?” Max was easy on the eyes. Olivia figured forty-ish. He had black hair peppered with gray on the sides. His voice was deep with a gravel edge. His eyes, brown, almost black. A woman could get lost in those eyes. He was a big man, broad-shouldered. Strong. Capable.

Max could sense she was sizing him up and moved restlessly on the sofa. Clearing his throat and shaking her from her reverie, he explained. “Your father was not only a friend but a colleague. He worked with me as a detective for many, many years. He was one of the best.”

She felt as if she had been slapped.

“We had been working on a big case and he just disappeared and then we were told he was gone.” He lowered his head and twisted his hands together in his lap.

Olivia considered herself a good intuitive and she was reading Max like a book. There was something bothering this man.

“Why are you here Mr. Davis?” she impatiently implored.

“Max, you can call me Max.” he stated emphatically. “Your dad had something…something of importance. Something people are looking for.”

Growing tired of his useless chatter, Olivia stands to show him to the door. “Mr. Davis, I have not seen hide nor hair of my father in fifteen years. What makes you think I have anything of importance that you or anyone else may wish to have?” Max continued to sit unfazed by her rant. She continued.

“There is nothing I have or wanted from my father. I don’t know why I am even referring to him as my father. He was never a father in any sense of the word.” She walks toward the door, motioning for Max to follow. “Now if you please, I would like to continue my life without my father as I have for the past fifteen years.”

Max slowly lifts his large body from the sofa. He ambles his way toward the door as if he can’t move any quicker than a snail’s pace. This makes Olivia frustrated and she taps her foot impatiently. Her hands are posted on her hips and he thinks at this moment she is beautiful. Her pale white skin and dark blue eyes make her the image of her father. Her amber-colored hair is free-flowing today and it makes her look wild and unkempt. She is slim and curvy in all the right places. She could drive a man insane. This man needs to keep his head on straight. They part ways but not before he leaves his number and a promise for her to call if anything comes up.

Olivia was about to climb into bed when she remembered the black book. She pulled her robe from the closet door hanger and pulled it onto her shoulders. Switching on the hall light she winced as the light brightened the darkened hall. She made her way to the kitchen and underneath the morning's discarded newspaper still lay the beautifully bound black book. She ran her hand once again across its soft velvet finish. She thought to herself could this perhaps be what Max was talking about when he said there was something “they” were looking for. She picked the book up and carried it to her room to discover what the contents held from the comfort of her bed.

Olivia settled into her bed. The black book lay on her lap. She lifted the knot and carefully began to unwind its intricate strands. She carefully laid aside the binding. She ran her hand across the cover once more and opened it. Olivia could not breathe. The air was sucked like a vacuum from her lungs. She blinked as if she were seeing a mirage. There confined within the pages of the book, money. Side by side the bills were stitched together intricately. There was a note. She picked it up.

My dearest daughter,

Inside this book, you will find $20,000. You should spend it however you like. I was never the father you should have had. I stayed away to protect you. There is a serial killer out there that I have been tracking for years. He attached himself to me before you were born, and I could not subject you to his psychotic rages. His life has become entwined with mine and for that I am sorry. I wish I had been a different man, in a different life but this is the life I chose. I have learned his identity and will soon confront him. If you are receiving this, I did not make it out alive. He will come looking for you and the safest thing you can do is to not trust anyone who claims to know me. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He can charm anyone. He fooled me; he will fool you. Be safe my child. I will always love you. Forever and a day.

Yours,

Dad

The tears flowed down her cheeks, and a sob ripped from her throat. She felt as if her throat was burning from the inside out. She heard a thump from her garage, and she stilled. She leaned slowly over to the bedside table and picked up her cold, hard 9mm. The door to her bedroom opened slowly as the click of the safety rang out like a bell in the silent room. She assumed her position and waited, determined. Laying down wasn’t an option, she’d fight until her last breath.