Chapter Twenty Seven
My present…
The community center was silent. The lights were shut off besides one that shined down on the bleachers of the Haze Room and one boxing bag. All the girls had left, and I was the last one left to lock up.
The day had dragged, the thrill of teaching the sport of boxing to others stolen from me the minute Madeline had joined the practice.
No, that was fucking wrong to say. I shouldn’t blame that innocent girl for taking anything from me. She’d done nothing wrong. It was my own fucking guilt eating me up.
I’d thought the pain would slowly ease, that walking this earth would be easier after a few years, but seeing Madeline, looking into Linda’s eyes¸ it was just too fucking much.
I rested on the bleachers, my head in my hands and my elbows relaxing on my legs. I was at a loss, probably the lowest point of my life. For once in my life, I truly felt like I was at a crossroads. When I’d thrown my last punch at Marshall, I didn’t really have options because Jett had been so desperate to keep me around, but now that he had Goldie. There was really no reason for me to stick around.
I’d made a commitment to Justice, to staying here and helping the center succeed, but what was I really doing to help? I was empty, I was lifeless, I wasn’t helping anyone.
It was time for a change.
A soft knock rang through the silent room, startling me for a second. Linda was standing in the doorway, clutching her purse. Taking a deep breath, I stood and said, “Hi Linda. Did Madeline forget something?”
“No,” she said while looking around nervously. “Um, do you have a moment to talk?”
“Yes,” I said warily. The nervous tension coming off her threw me for a loop.
With her purse held closely to her body, she walked up to me and visibly shook. The hand holding the strap rattled against her shoulder, and she scanned the room as if she was checking for someone to pop out of the corners.
“Are you okay?” I asked, feeling a tingle crawl across the back of my neck. What was in her purse that was so important that she was clutching?
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
My stomach bottomed out, my pulse quickened, and I instantly felt ill. “What are you talking about?” I asked, sweating.
“You were the man at the bar, the man who killed my husband.”
I could feel my skin turn white, my breathing grew at a rapid rate, my body became a complete void. I was physically unable to answer.
“You don’t have to admit to anything. I can see it on your face.” Her hand continued to shake as a tear ran down her cheek. “I knew it was you. I didn’t know at first. I had no clue who would kill my husband, but I saw someone who resembled you at the funeral, and I had an inkling. Then on Madeline’s birthday and at Christmas, I saw you sneaking presents to our doorstep for Madeline. You thought you went undetected, but I knew it was you. The moment I heard about Justice and the classes you were offering, I knew I had to make contact.”
Alarm bells were going off in my head. I stepped back and bumped into the bleachers. Linda didn’t look well. She looked almost sick, like she couldn’t believe she was going to do something out of her element.
“Linda—”
“Don’t, please don’t speak.” She held up her hand. She reached into her purse and I felt like I was going into shock. I’d waited for this moment, for my last breath, but I didn’t want my life to end. I didn’t want this to be my last minute on this world.
In slow motion, I watched Linda whip something out of her purse, and I flinched as she pointed it at me.
“Take them,” she said, pushing what was in her hand in front of me.
My vision blurred as I tried to figure out what she was handing me. I looked down and saw a pile of construction paper. At closer work, I saw crayon marks drawn across them in a child’s writing.
“Take them, Kace,” Linda repeated herself.
Obliging her request, I grabbed the folded pieces from her and then sat down on the bleachers. She sat next to me, still shaking but letting go of her purse. Relieved she wasn’t here to take my life, I started sifting through the papers.
Colors ranging from pink to blue to green were scattered over contrasting paper and each were addressed to “Dear Sir.”
They were homemade cards from Madeline.
“What are these?” My vision started to blur from the tears that clouded my eyes.
“They are thank you notes from Madeline. She wrote one for every gift you’ve ever gotten her. She would give them to me to mail to the man who gave her such precious gifts. It’s time that you read them.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, my eyes burning from holding in my emotions. I opened the cards and read what was inside.
Dear Sir, thank you for my mini purple horse figurine. I named him Clyde. I love him.
Dear Sir, I like purse. Thanks.
Dear Sir, baking with mom is fun. Thank u for the apron.
Dear Sir, I like my shirt. It’s big now but mom says I will grow.
Dear Sir, magnets are fun, I like to hang things on the fridge, thanks.
Dear Sir, I wish I could thank you in person. I love my necklace. It’s so pretty.
There were tons of cards, but the last one I read was what allowed the tears that clouded my vision to finally fall. I set the cards to the side so I wouldn’t get them wet, placed my head in my hands, and let my emotions overtake me.
Kindly, Linda rested a hand on my back, rubbing me soothingly like any mother would. I’d never truly cried, never let myself feel so much emotion, but at this point, I couldn’t block it out. It hit me all at once.
Shame, anger, and regret sent me into a tailspin of depression. I didn’t want these cards. I couldn’t justify having them, not after what I’d taken away from Madeline. I could give her everything in the world except the one thing she deserved: a father.
“I’m sorry, Linda. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” she asked, still rubbing my back.
I looked at her as if she was losing her mind. I pulled away and ran the backs of my hands over my tear-soaked cheeks.
“Why am I sorry? You just said you know I killed your husband, and here I am, living a perfectly normal life. I should be rotting in fucking jail right now. Why haven’t you called the cops?”
“Kace, why would I call the cops on you? You protected us.”
Confused, I sat up and asked, “What are you talking about?”
Linda reached into her purse again and pulled out a thin leather album. She handed it to me and nodded for me to open it. Curious, I flipped open the page and was met with ghastly pictures of Linda, beaten and battered to the point where she was almost unrecognizable. Bile rose in my throat as I continued to turn the pages. Flip after flip, there were pictures of Linda with bruises, burns, cuts.
“Why are you showing me this?” I asked.
“He abused us, Kace. He had a temper and would come home and take it out on me. The night he was killed, he struck Madeline for the first time. Those pictures are from that night as well. He left me practically lifeless on the floor and went to the bar. I had nothing, no family, no friends to support me because they couldn’t understand why I stayed with Marshall. They knew what he did to me. But I stayed with him because I thought that maybe, just maybe he would change, but he never did. His punches got harder, his cuts ran deeper, and his verbal abuse got stronger.”