I stomped in anger. “DADDY!”
I looked around the room with my hands defiantly on my hips, blowing my bangs from my face. There were four other paintings in the room. I rushed each one, mimicking the sweep I’d just done with the larger painting. I ripped the fourth one off the wal and searched the backside of the frame.
Looking at the now-empty wal , I felt another scream of aggravation coming on.
How could there be nothing in his office? No safes, no secret doorways, no….
Keys. There were keys in Jack’s desk. The first time I’d searched his office I assumed they were his car keys. But the car he drove himself—his Jag —was totaled. Scrap metal. What were the keys to?
In my haste to get to the desk, my hip smashed into the corner with a loud crack. I stifled a cry and doubled over, using the desk to steady myself. I attempted to rub the sting away with one hand, and pul ed open the drawer containing the keys with the other. I held the keys in my palm, trying to remember if I’d seen a lock that the keys might fit. I slowly turned my head toward the wal of cabinets. The center tower of files was locked.
Surely, he wouldn’t be this obvious, I thought.
I hobbled to the cabinets and tugged on the drawer. It was stil locked.
The first key only went in half way. I tried three more keys; the fourth easily slid in, but wouldn’t turn. Two keys later, I found myself cursing my father, Mr. Dawson, even the metal in my hands. I gripped the last key between my thumb and finger and closed my eyes.
The key slid in, and I rotated my wrist. It began to turn, and then caught. None of the keys were to the locked file cabinet.
“Damn it!” I said, throwing the keys to the floor. I kicked the cabinet, walked away, and then returned to land another kick, this time denting the bottom.
Limping across the floor, I picked up the keys and tossed them into the desk drawer. I was done.
I walked down the hal with my hand stil pressed against my throbbing hip and stopped at the top of the stairs. Cynthia’s voice was weary as she spoke on the phone. Idling for a moment before taking the first stair, I heard her speak my name.
“Nina’s fine. She’s upstairs, resting. What do you expect me to do? Forbid her to...? Honestly, you worry too much! She just didn’t want to be alone tonight. I heard some commotion upstairs; I assumed she knocked something over. It mustn’t have been as bad as…,” she sighed, “yes. I’l check on her. Goodnight.”
Cynthia turned to look up at me. I sheepishly waved, cursing under my breath for getting caught eavesdropping.
“Are you al right, Dear?” she cal ed.
“I’m fine. Ran into a desk; bumped my side. Who was that?”
She shrugged. “Was it real y necessary to yel out such profanities while I’m on the phone? My friends were under the impression that I had raised a lady.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was being so loud.”
Cynthia nodded dismissively. “I’ve got a beautiful ham in the oven. You’l be staying for dinner, won’t you?”
“Er…yes. I was going to stop by the hospital, but it can wait.”
Cynthia made her way up the stairs. I fol owed into her study where she set some unopened envelopes on her desk.
“How is your friend doing?” she asked, I assumed just to be polite.
“I’m not sure, I haven’t been back since this morning, but no one’s cal ed to tel me otherwise. I’m sure there’s been improvement.”
“Wonderful news, Dear,” she said, preoccupied.
She pul ed her pearl drop earrings from her ears, and placed them on the silver tray that sat on a smal table near the wal . My eyes wandered to a hutch that matched her table and desk. The fronds of a plant obscured the top cabinet, and I zeroed in on a smal silver circle on the top right corner.
“Coming, Nina?” Cynthia asked, pausing at the door.
“I’l be down in a minute. I wanted to check my e-mail, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at al ,” she smiled. “Don’t be late for dinner.”
I watched her walk out the door and waited as she descended the stairs. Once she was deeper into the lower level, I sprinted down the hal to my father’s office. Yanking open his desk drawer, I grabbed the smal silver ring of keys.
With a sense of excitement, I hurried back to my mother’s study and pul ed the plant to the floor. It was heavier than it appeared, and I grunted as I worked to set it down without overturning the whole pot onto its side.
After the first five keys failed, I blew my bangs from my face with a puff of air. Only two keys left. The sixth key slid in, and when I turned my wrist and the key continued to turn ninety degrees, I gasped.
Pul ing the cabinet door open, I peered behind me for a just a moment, afraid of what my mother would say if she caught me snooping in her things.
There were several files, so I pul ed al of them out and spread them on the floor. On my knees, I thumbed through contracts, shipping papers, a receipt for the ring my father bought me, insurance claims and filings, and the occasional deposit slip.
I slid one folder to the side to uncover another with Jack’s no-nonsense scribble on it.
Port of Providence My hands shook as I opened the flap of the folder. Did I real y want to know? I felt I was opening Pandora’s Box.
Sitting on top, I found a thick, wrinkled manila envelope. I pul ed the packet from the file and opened it. It contained a stack of black and white photos. Picture after picture featured a dozen or so different men, but those same faces appeared over and over, at times alone, and at other times together. One man that was most often the subject in the pictures stood beside the governor of Rhode Island. Another man was pictured in both casual clothes and some type of uniform; I assumed he was a police officer in formal blues.