Better Left Unread

My thoughts were interrupted by somber handshakes and empty condolences. Half of these people are only here because my father got them out of doing time for heinous crimes, and the other half is here because my father has been generously “donating” to their foundations for years. With only one son to inherit the family’s estate, the whole town became one giant ass kisser. I, too am a lawyer, but I would rather be dead than defend these criminals who claim “wrong place, wrong time.” My law firm protects actually innocent people.

As much of a disappointment my father was, he always looked good in a suit. I chose to put him in the suit he wore when he won his groundbreaking case. The man my father was defending was on trial for murdering his sister, Melanie Broker. The evidence was undeniable, but somehow, someway my father got him off. After that, he was known as the “The city’s best defense lawyer…” blah blah blah. He called it his lucky suit, and the asshole would have wanted to wear it today.

I reached into my jetted pocket and pulled out the small silver flask he gave me when my office officially opened its doors. He had looked me dead in the eyes and said, “You’re going to need this, son.”

Oh, how right you are, Dad.

I slipped behind a plastic Ficus, let the harsh burn of forgetfulness wash over me, and resumed my role as the proud and dutiful son.

I opted to not say anything during the service. Actually, the only reason why there is a service in the first place is that my father had set aside money specifically for his funeral. If it were up to me, he would be ashes at the bottom of a lake. Instead, he will be a preserved body in the Cotter Family mausoleum, where generations of lawyers reside. The only thing I can control now is where I will end up, which will not be next to my father.

Unfortunately, even after he is sealed in his tomb, I will not have been rid of him yet. The house I grew up in still needed to be cleaned out and sold. This thought alone made me lose my appetite, so I skipped the reception entirely. I got in my car and decided that my next destination will be the cigar lounge. This establishment was introduced to me by my father, but unlike him, it will forever hold a place in my heart. Here I was able to become a man and gain the confidence I needed to decide what I liked and didn’t like, to talk to pretty women, and disown my father for the rest of my days. Why I ever idolized that man will remain a mystery.

I started to lose myself in red-hot hatred towards the man who raised me, and when I came back to reality I was in my father’s driveway.

“What the fuck...?”

I rubbed my eyes, blinked a few times, and tried to remember what happened. I still let that man affect me, even when he is behind a slab of concrete. I killed the engine and got out of the vehicle. This place is even more unsettling at night. I have never felt comfortable here, even as a child. I reached inside my suit for the flask, drank the rest of the scotch, and hesitantly walked towards the front door.

Obviously, my subconscious would rather dissect my father’s personal life than drown out my inner monologue with booze and tobacco. Good thing the old man keeps a healthy stash of imports to entertain guests. The door unlocked and I was immediately transported back in time. Memories came flooding in, almost knocking me off of my feet. I saw the last time we talked, which ended in an argument, in the hallway. I could hear him yelling that I will never do what is necessary to succeed in life. Father of the year.

Overwhelmed with unwelcomed emotions, I stared at the doors to his study. I was never allowed in there and it was always locked, but he’s dead now and I know where he hides the key.

Sitting behind his desk was a powerful feeling. This large and in charge piece of furniture was the doorway to my father’s life. He was always in here, yelling, drinking-

Speaking of drinking, I looked around and spotted the mini bar, fully stocked. I walked over and made myself a whiskey, double with a squeeze of lime. Twirling the honey-colored liquid, I slowly sat back down and took a deep breath. Years of stress and leather filled my nostrils. I ran my hands along with the details of the desk, reeling from this sweet victory. As my hands glided along the mahogany, I felt something round protruding from underneath the lip of the desk. I pushed and *click. *

A false side opened and revealed a massive stack of newspapers and court notes. I figured that was a good place to start considering he made an effort to conceal these items. So I grabbed a handful and started going through everything. All of the newspapers read something about a mass murderer or a dead body was found in the woods. Some headlines talked about multiple missing persons with “no leads.” I continued to sift through the newspapers until I got to his court notes. His chicken scratch was barely legible, so I tossed them aside.

I went back to the cabinet for more papers, but instead, I find a little black book. The leather was worn and it adorned my father’s initials on the cover. Pretentious. I opened the notebook.

Date: May 10th, 2020

Malorie Broker

Soldier’s Park

Blunt force trauma

Malorie Broker. My father defended her brother in court. Blunt force trauma? I thought she was stabbed. The next page read:

Susan Wells

Bendix Woods

Blunt force trauma

Every page had a women’s name, location, and an injury. All of the names sound so familiar. As I stood up, I knocked over the newspapers that were sitting on the corner. I bent down to scoop them up and realized where I have heard these names. The women in the headlines! They were either victims or missing! I fell back, my mind spinning. There is no way my father, as shitty as he was, was capable of murder. I reached up, fumbling for the notebook and started to cross reference the names of the victims as well as the dates they were found. All of the entries were before the police even considered them missing. How could my father keep this information to himself? Why didn’t he accept the hefty twenty-grand offered as a reward from the victims’ families? Unless…

No. There has to be more information. I looked into the now empty compartment and started feeling around the corners. When my hand reached the top of the cabinet, I felt something. I pulled the taped object out. It was another black notebook. This one looked newer. The leather still shined, even in the dim study. I flipped it over to the cover. My initials were printed instead of my father’s. I gulped audibly, and shaking, I opened the book to the front page.

The hair on my arms stood up. My knees went weak. The only thing I could hear was my heartbeat thundering in my ears. Tears started to sting my eyes. It was a note from my father addressed to me.

Son,

I do hope you are the one who takes the responsibility of going through my things.

I also hope you are willing to do whatever it takes to succeed in life and your career. You have a legacy to uphold and a fortune to sustain for future generations.

You must take on that responsibility. Whatever it takes.

R.C.

I blacked out. The next thing I know, I was sitting outside of the police station with my father’s papers and a massive headache.