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DATE: Sunday, October 28th, 2018
LOCATION: Washington, DC, USA
PERIOD: Evening
TIME: 18:56 PM
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Grace's eyelids fluttered open slowly, still it felt quite heavy and sticky to open, like they'd been glued shut for days. The ceiling tiles above her were white and blurry at first. A dull throb pulsed behind her eyes. She tried to move her head and winced.
Tubes tugged gently at the back of her hand. For a moment she didn't know where she was—then the memory crashed back: the black screen, the police at the door, Britney's voice screaming through the phone, Dad gone, the floor rushing up to meet her.
She blinked hard and turned her head on the pillow.
Edward stood near the doorway, talking in a low, serious voice to a doctor in a white coat. Her fiancé looked exhausted—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, he was nodding, listening carefully, one hand resting on the doctor's clipboard as if he could will better news into it. "…so she just needs rest, right? No complications from the fainting?" The doctor answered quietly, but Grace didn't catch the words. Her gaze shifted towards the group of people infront of her.
Britney was already moving the second she saw Grace's eyes open, her older sister bolted from the plastic chair beside the bed. Britney's face was puffy, eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying, her mascara was smudged around her cheeks.
She reached the bed in three quick steps and dropped to her knees beside it, both hands gently cupping Grace's face, thumbs brushing softly over her cheeks as if checking she was really there.
"Oh thank God you're awake…" Britney voice was filled with relief. "Grace, you scared the absolute fuck out of me. I thought—God, when they called and said you'd collapsed, I nearly had a heart attack right there in the car. I was driving like a maniac"
Britney shot her husband a sideways glance. Mike just faked a smile not to argue with her. "—And you know how husbands can be when they're heading overseas," she said dryly. "Always telling you to calm the hell down, like you're about to wreck the car and ruin their whole career."
Then she turned to her younger sister, her expression softening, she took a deep breath and said. "Don't you ever do that to me again. You hear me?"
Grace tried to smile, but it came out weak and wobbly. She reached up with her free hand and covered one of Britney. "Just… just a light headache now. I'm okay. I'll be fine, really. Stop looking at me like I'm about to die or something."
Britney let out a shaky half-laugh, the kind that was more sob, and pressed her forehead lightly against Grace's for a second. "Your pulse was all over the place when they brought you in. Edward's been pacing like a caged animal for hours. We've been here since they wheeled you up from the....."
Grace cut her off instantly.
"Where's Mom? Is she… is she okay?"
Britney squated until she touched her heels but kept one hand on Grace's cheek, thumb still stroking gently. "She's in the room right next door. They're keeping her for a week or so—mostly for observation and to make sure the concussion doesn't get worse. She's got stitches on her forehead and a few bruised ribs from where the… where the glass had poked her badly. But she's talking now, keeps saying she needs to see her girls."
Grace's eyes filled again. She blinked fast. "Yeah… that's fine. I'll just like to see her. Even for a minute. I need to—"
"Don't worry about that right now, Grace" Britney cut in softly, squeezing her hand. "You got plenty of time to do so. She's not going anywhere, and neither are you until the doctor says it's safe. You just need to rest, okay? Promise me?"
As if on cue, the door swung open wider. Britney's two children—eight-year-old Emma and six-year-old Noah—burst in. Their faces lit up the second they saw their aunty awake.
"Aunt Grace!" Emma cried, running straight to the bed and climbing up carefully to wrap her small arms around Grace's neck. Noah followed right behind, burying his face against her side. "You're awake!" Noah mumbled. "Mommy said you fell down really hard."
Grace hugged them both as best she could with the IV line, one arm around each, pressing kisses to the tops of their heads. "Hey, hey, I'm right here. See? All in one piece. Just took a little nap, that's all. You two being good for your mom?"
Emma nodded against her shoulder, not letting go. "We brought you a drawing. It's in the car. It has all of us and Grandma and Grandpa… but we didn't know what to draw for Grandpa so we made him with angel wings like in the movies."
Britney eyes welled up again at that. She looked away for a second, wiping her cheek quickly. Grace bit her lips and said "I'm.... I'm sure he's going to love that so much..."
Edward finished with the doctor, shook the man's hand, and turned around. The moment he saw Grace sitting up, a warm, tired smile spread across his face—the kind that reached his eyes even through the exhaustion.
He walked towards her and gently ruffled Noah's hair as he passed, then leaned down and kissed Grace softly on the forehead. "Hey, beautiful," he murmured against her skin. "How are you feeling?"
He straightened, still smiling, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Doctor says your vitals look good now. Just low blood pressure from the shock and not eating all day. We can get you home tonight if you're feeling up to it."
Grace looked up at him, her hand finding his and squeezing slowly. "Oh right. First we go to the girls' school though," Edward said quietly. "The girls are having the performance today. They will finish around 19:30."
She nodded for a second, before her eyes widened and lightly grabbed his sleeves. "Shit, I had promised them I'd be there today."
"Oh come on, babe," he murmured, thumb brushing over her knuckles, "I'm sure they'll understand. You've never missed one before." Edward leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.
Grace just tapped his fingers on her thigh, quite worried. Before Britney stood up slowly, still holding Grace's other hand. "Well, we will be on our way then, kids, say goodbye to Aunt Grace for now—she needs to rest, but we'll all go see Grandma together tomorrow, okay?" Her children hugged Grace once more, then let Britney guide them toward the door with promises of ice cream later.
Mike closed the door behind them.
Edward helped Grace sit up a little more, one arm around her shoulders, careful with the wires. "You scared me too, you know," he whispered just for her. " Grace leaned her head against his chest and watched as the evening settled in.
"Yeah, I know "
She replied.
The minivan rolled to a gentle stop outside the school auditorium just as the last parents were trickling out. Edward stopped the engine and glanced over at his wife. She still looked a little washed-out from the migraine that had flattened her earlier—dark circles under her eyes, one hand absently rubbing her temple—but she forced a smile as the back doors flew open.
Lorienta and Therese scrambled in, their glittery dance costumes still sparkling under the dome light. They buckled themselves in with the dramatic sighs. "Mom…" Lorienta started immediately, voice small and accusing as she clicked her seatbelt. "You said you would be there. You promised."
Therese nodded "And Dad left right after our first song! We kept looking for you guys in the audience. Everybody else's parents stayed the whole time." Edward pulled away from the curb, though keeping his eyes on the traffic. His thumbs drummed lightly on the steering wheel.
He cleared his throat and spoke. "Yeah, girls… Mommy had a really bad headache this morning. She had to go to the hospital so the doctor could give her medicine and make sure she was okay." He reached across and gave Grace knee a quick, reassuring squeeze. "I'm sorry we missed it, sweethearts. Both of us. We really, really wanted to be there."
Grace twisted around as far as her seatbelt would let her. Her voice was soft and thick with guilt. "I'm so sorry, my loves. I feel so awful about it. I had my outfit all picked out and everything. I was so excited to watch you two shine." She swallowed. "The headache just hit me out of nowhere and… I didn't want to ruin your big day by showing up feeling sick you know. But I hate that I wasn't there. I really do."
In the back, Lorienta picked at a loose sequin on her sleeve while Therese stared down at her sparkly shoes, kicking them softly against the seat in front. Their little shoulders stayed slumped in sadness.
But then Therese perked up just a bit and said. "We got second place, though," she said softly. "Miss Carla said we were the best in the whole junior group! Everybody clapped so loud when we did that spin move you taught us—the one where we hold hands and go really fast."
Lorienta jumped in, leaning forward against her seatbelt. "Yeah! And now we're going to the finals in two weeks at the big auditorium downtown. Miss Carla said if we practice extra hard we might even get first this time!"
Mom's face softened with real pride, even through the headache. She reached back between the seats and gently brushed a stray curl off Lorienta's forehead, then did the same for Therese.
"Second place? Oh my gosh, that's incredible! I can't even begin to describe how proud I am of you both. Even without us in the crowd, sweethearts" Her voice caught for a second. "Two weeks—for the finals—I promise, no matter what, I will be right there in the front row the entire time. I'll bring the big camera, I'll record everything, and I'll cheer louder than parent when you win. Deal?"
"Deal!" the girls chorused, their sadness finally melting into excited giggles. Therese clapped her hands. Lorienta high-fived her sister across the booster seats, already chattering about what song they should pick for the finals.
Edward smiled quietly to himself, as he listened to them.
Upon arriving home, Edward locked the front door and, out of habit, tested the deadbolt twice before kicking off his shoes in the hallway. The twins had crashed the moment their heads touched their pillows. Meanwhile Grace padded straight to their bedroom. The migraine had faded to a dull throb behind her eyes. She didn't bother turning on the big overhead light—just the small lamp on her nightstand. She sank onto the edge of the bed, still in her jeans and hoodie, and picked up her phone out of her pocket, mindlessly scrolling for a video to watch.
A video popped up—"What to Do for Your Parents' Anniversary." The title alone made her pause. She blinked rapidly and remembered when her father smiled across the dinner table, teasing her mother about burning the roast, laughing like he always did when he wanted everyone else to relax.
And just like that, her memory wandered back to the CD and the diary she had found in the garden this morning. Edward's voice drifted from the bathroom, muffled by running water. "Shower's free if you want it, babe."
She didn't answer.
The second she heard the bathroom door click shut and the water turn on, Grace bolted from the bed and moved to the living room barefoot. The living room was only ten steps away. The diary and CD were still exactly where she'd left them—tucked between the couch cushions earlier when she heard the door bell ring. Her hands shook as she snatched them up. She clutched both to her chest and went back to the room.
She opened it:
Dear Diary,
I don't even know why I'm still writing in this thing.
Maybe it's because it's the only place left where I can say the truth without someone staring back at me. Paper doesn't judge. It just sits there and takes it.
God knows I don't deserve that mercy.
I'm not a man anyone should forgive—not in this world, not in whatever comes after. Certainly not my own family. If there were any justice in the universe, I'd be wiped clean out of existence. Not dead. Worse than that. Forgotten. A blank space in every photo album. An empty chair in every memory.
Anything would be better than being remembered as the kind of man who could end up… equal to someone like Pol the Pot.
I used to hear that name on the news when I was younger and think, how does a human being become that?
How does someone cross a line like that and keep breathing afterward?
Turns out the answer is simple.
You don't notice the line when you step over it.
You only see it when you're standing miles on the other side.
I keep telling myself no one will ever read these pages. The moment things start closing in—real investigators, real questions—I'll burn all of it. Every page. I've already got the metal barrel in the backyard for yard waste. It wouldn't take much. A match, a little gasoline, and a few minutes watching the smoke rise.
But I can't shake the feeling it's already too late.
Grace called again today.
My little Grace.
She's not little anymore, of course. She's a grown woman with a life and so much responsibilities I barely understand anymore. But when she says "Dad" over the phone, I still hear the six-year-old who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms.
She asked me today.
"Dad… have you heard anything new?"
She didn't have to say his name.
I knew she meant Adam.
I closed my eyes when she said it. I actually had to sit down at the kitchen table because my legs felt numb.
I told her what I always tell her.
That the private investigators hit another dead end.
That sometimes people disappear.
There was a pause on the line after that. Before she told me that she just needed to know if he was okay.
That's when my hand started shaking.
I had to grip the phone tighter to stop it from slipping out of my fingers. Because the truth is—
I was the one who made sure he disappeared.
It was obviously supposed to protect her.
That's the lie I've repeated to myself every night for years. The same sentence, over and over, like if I say it enough times it might eventually become true.
Because the alternative—that I destroyed lives for nothing—is something I don't think my mind could survive.
Aegiso Grey or Adam Grey was a monster. At least that's how I remember him now. A man who could stand in the kitchen smiling politely over coffee while something rotten lived just beneath the surface. He had that kind of calm voice people trust automatically. With a steady job and good manners. Just imagine the sort of man neighbors wave to.
But I knew what he was doing to her when no one else was around.
Or at least… I believed I did.
The things I imagined happening behind closed doors still make my hands clench tightly. So I did what I told myself any father would do if he had the courage.
I made him disappear.
At first I planned on killing him in some alley with a gun or a knife, but then I realized that I wasn't a monster.
Why would I do such a thing.
Good men like me don't get blood on our hands that way. We use paperwork and phone calls and quiet conversations with people who owe us favors. So I arranged a meeting with the Odd Fellows for him to be labeled a failed subject. Just another unstable case from the early trials.
I truly believed that would be the end of it.
I only ended up in the Odd Fellows' world because I had nowhere else to go. By the time they found me, my life had already collapsed.
The scandal at my university finished what my arrogance started. Someone leaked the emails—pages and pages of my hideous works I had written at the university. All my conversations about the teachers taken out of context, accusations that grew teeth the second the school heard about it.
I still remember when I was brought to the dean's office. He wouldn't even sit down while he spoke to me. Just stood by the window with his hands folded looking at me with a disappointed look.
"You understand this leaves us no choice."
I lost everything in a matter of weeks. My grades, my career and my future. Everything was so messed up that even my own brothers started avoiding my calls. I spent three nights sleeping in the back seat of my car behind a grocery store.
That's where Pol the Pot found me.
I told myself he saved me that night.
Now I realize what really happened.
That was the moment I sold whatever was left of my soul.
The worst memory—the one that won't stop replaying no matter how much whiskey I drink—is the Belizan girl. I still see the hallway lights flickering that night. The facility always smelled like disinfectant and hot metal from the equipment downstairs.
It was around three in the morning when they brought her in. I was filling out the night logs when I heard screaming echo through the service corridor. They dragged her in by the arms. Her bare feets scraped across the concrete floor the whole way.
She couldn't have been more than nineteen. She had dark hair tangled and wet with blood. One eye already swollen shut. Her lip split open so badly every word in spanish or portoghese she tried to say came out slurred.
I remembered her name.
Helena.
She'd been picked up during a protest earlier that day. Just a college kid who happened to see something she wasn't supposed to see.
That's all it takes in this world.
One wrong place. One wrong moment.
The guards didn't even bother taking her to a cell first. Right there in the corridor, under those awful buzzing lights, they—
…Jesus.
Even writing it makes my hands immobile. I stood behind the one-way observation glass and told myself I couldn't intervene. Pol was watching the monitors that night. I knew he was. Everyone knew when he was watching.
One wrong move and I would've been the next person strapped to a table.
So I stood there.
And I did nothing.
I listened to her beg in her native language until her voice was barely heard.
Eventually she stopped fighting.
They cleaned the blood off her face just enough for the intake camera and sat her down in front of one of the surgeons like she was just another patient.
I signed the paperwork.
The only real proof any of this happened is a piece of footage nobody is supposed to have. An Argentine cameraman recorded it during one of the hybrid containment demonstrations.
His name was Ruiz. Just a quiet guy. Always polite. Used to bring homemade tamales for the night shift and leave them in the break room microwave with a sticky note that said help yourselves.
He caught Pol on camera doing something that was never meant to be documented.
By sunrise, Ruiz had a bullet in the back of his head.
Official report said robbery.
The file was supposedly destroyed. Wiped from every server. Deleted three different ways.
But they were wrong.
I copied it before they could.
One small encrypted drive.
I keep it wrapped inside an old sock at the bottom of my toolbox in the garage, buried under rusted wrenches and a broken socket set nobody ever touches.
Sometimes, when the house is quiet and I can't sleep, I take it out.
Two in the morning.
I plug it into the computer and watch the footage with the volume almost muted.
Not because I enjoy it.
God no.
Because I need to remember what I became the moment I chose silence over courage.
Grace thinks her father is just a retired professor now. A harmless old man who spends his mornings gardening and his evenings watching old Westerns on cable.
Last Christmas I helped tuck her kids into bed after they fell asleep on the couch. She hugged me before leaving and said, "I don't know what we'd do without you, Dad."
If she ever knew the truth—
I don't think she'd even recognize the man standing in front of her. My daughters still send me Father's Day cards.
My wife…
Fuck.
She might die someday believing she married a decent man. And maybe that's the cruelest part of all. Lately there have been new people asking questions about the old facility.
Investigators. Journalists. People digging through things that were supposed to stay buried forever.
Is it already too late?
Am I waiting too long to burn the truth?