Walking down the street with Aden, it was hard to believe that it took me so long to figure
out that he was pyrokinetic. It was an unusually cold night and I was shivering in my coat.
He, on the other hand, was dressed only in a band t-shirt and a thin, hooded jacket, and did
not look the least bit bothered by the weather. I pulled my coat tighter around myself. Aden
adjusted his grip on my arm.
"Don't even think about making a run for it," he warned.
I rolled my eyes.
"Please. Give me more credit than that. We're still in the middle of a populated
neighbourhood. I'm not about to start anything."
He arched a brow challengingly.
"And the minute we're in a less populated area?" He shook his head, seemingly amused.
"Relax, Blair. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Really?" I scoffed.
He shot me a look out of the corner of his eyes. If I did not know any better, I would have
said he looked almost apologetic. But then his gaze hardened.
"You're just a means to an end."
Neither of us said a word after that.
The silence gave me a chance to properly go over the events that had just occurred. There
were quite a few things to process. Fact: Aden was definitely not normal. Fact: He had more
or less kidnapped me. The question was: why? Back in my kitchen, he had hinted that my
dad was not who I thought he was. And he claimed to know the real reason behind my
mom's death.
My eyes narrowed as I connected the dots. I was almost certain his real target was my dad.
After all, he had said I was only a means to an end. Had his offer to refill the popcorn bowl
been a ruse to buy time to search my home? It was plausible. It would explain why he had
not been in the kitchen when I went to check on him and why he had even bothered to
make more popcorn in the first place; he was covering his tracks. And if he really did know
more about my mom's death than my dad was willing to tell me, then it stood to reason that
he must have somehow been involved.
I frowned.
But that was impossible. He would have only been ten at the time. So maybe he knew the
people who murdered my mom.
I gritted my teeth and felt my body tense up reflexively.
Dad! - I thought as loudly as I could - Where are you?
"Cold?"
Aden's question snapped me out of my musings.
"What do you care?" I muttered.
He did not reply and we returned to walking in silence. It, therefore, caught me off guard
when my coat started to gradually heat up until it was toasty warm. He smirked at the look
of confusion I gave him.
"You're welcome," he said, smugly.
I grudgingly thanked him.
"I'm not the bad guy, you know."
I found that hard to believe.
"Who are you then? You never did answer my question earlier."
"Well, I already said I'm not the bad guy. So, by process of elimination, I have to be the good
guy."
"Nothing you've done so far supports that claim. The good guy doesn't kidnap innocent
girls or threaten their best friend."
He laughed derisively.
"This isn't one of your comics, Blair. In real life, things aren't always black or white."
"Then explain it to me so I can understand!"
We had stopped walking; had, in fact, been standing still for a while. Something flashed
across his face; an emotion I could not decipher. He let go of my arm.
"You're not going to believe me even if I tell you."
"Try me," I challenged.
His gray eyes bore into mine, as if searching for something. He sighed.
"We're almost there. Once we get to my place, I'll tell you everything. And show you the
evidence to prove that I'm telling the truth."
He looked so determined, so sure of himself. He was convinced that what he was doing was
right; that it needed to be done.
"Ok," I conceded.
Aden's 'place' turned out to be the abandoned corner house two streets down from where I
lived. Considering he was after my dad, it was a little unnerving to realise how close he had
been to us this entire time. He climbed in through an open window and then held out a
hand to help me up.
"Come on."
I stared at him, knowing that this was the point of no return. I had followed him so far
because I knew that; out in open space, in the middle of a neighbourhood I was familiar
with; I had at least stood a chance in escaping if I needed to. Once I climbed through that
window, I would literally be in enemy territory. I had no idea what waited for me on the
other side.
"Blair." I looked up at Aden, still holding out his hand to me. "Trust me."
I barely stopped myself from snorting in disbelief.
"I don't."
"But you want answers, don't you?"
I ignored his hand and hauled myself through the window.
The house had been abandoned a year ago after a particularly vicious storm blew off half
its roof. The ceiling on the first floor showed signs of water damage; there was broken glass
everywhere, and evidence that Aden was not the first squatter to pass through the place. I
briefly hesitated when he disappeared down the door that led to the basement, but
reminded myself that he had not hurt me yet and he was unlikely to hurt me now.
Aden must have tapped into someone's power line, for the lights in the basement were
switched on. He must have cleaned up as well for the room looked in better condition than
the ones upstairs. He swept his arms out dramatically and a part of me registered that he
was speaking, but I had stopped listening. Instead, my eyes were glued on the wall directly
opposite the staircase I had just descended.
Newspaper clippings, photographs that looked several years old and multi-coloured post-it
notes covered the entire wall. Each of the articles seemed to deal with unsolved murders
and suicides, with the oldest clipping dating back over eleven years. I turned my attention
to the photographs and felt my breath catch in my throat. Though each picture was of a
different person, it was not hard to pinpoint the commonality in all of them: there were all
shots of dark-haired men in their early forties, men who bore a striking resemblance to my
dad.
"Here," said Aden, coming up beside me and pulling down one of the clippings. "You might
find this one interesting."
It was an article from nine years ago, describing a mysterious triple murder that had taken
place right outside a police station. There were no witnesses and the bodies did not have
the typical signs of a defensive struggle. All that was known were the victims' names:
Detective Lewis Conley and his wife, Mildred. But it was the third name that caught my
attention - Elizabeth Mallory - my mom.
I looked up to find Aden watching me, wearing a wary expression, and holding a manila
envelope in his hands.
"What is this?" I breathed.
"Proof," he replied, holding out the envelope to me.
The manila envelope contained several transcripts, printouts, photographs and a memory
stick. The pictures were of different crime scenes. But like the photographs on the wall,
they had one thing in common: there were no signs of a struggle on the victims, no gunshot
wounds - no blood, no gore. If it were not for the police tape and markers evident in the
photographs, I would have believed they were simply sleeping. And then I came to the mug
shot and felt my heart stutter to a stop. Looking back up at me from the grainy police
photograph was a face that I would have recognised anywhere. It was my dad. In fact, every
single piece of paper in that envelope was about my dad. The transcripts were of several
interviews, all with the same person, Elizabeth Mallory. I scanned the printouts, the frown
on my brow deepening with each one I read. If this was all true, then…
"Are you saying my dad's a criminal - no - a murderer?" I asked, glaring at Aden
incredulously.
"It's all there, whether you choose to believe it or not." He took the memory stick from my
hands. "The recordings of your mother's interviews with my parents are on here. If you
don't believe me, maybe you'll believe her."