Melancholy

There’s nothing on his desk, really, aside from a few papers and pens. He doesn’t have a computer or anything special like that. I decide I’ll organize it for him; it’ll give me something to do. Maybe I’ll even spread myself out on it for when he returns. I gather all the papers into a file, and stack them, sorting them from A to Z.

I glance around, wondering where he keeps them, when I notice a filing cabinet. It would be there, surely. I get up and walk over, pulling the drawers, but they’re locked. Hmmmm. I go in search for a key, finding one in the safe sitting on a shelf. It’s cracked open slightly, which is strange. He must have grabbed something out of it and hurried off, not locking it correctly. From the looks of it, there’s nothing special in there anyway.

I pull out the key and rush back over and test it in the filing cabinet, and sure enough, it unlocks it. I pull it open, glancing at the unlabeled dividers. Great, he doesn’t put anything away properly. Fine, I’ll do it myself. I pull the small stack of papers out and walk back over to the desk, dropping them.

I begin to sort. It’s mostly invoices, things like that. I come across a yellow folder at the bottom, labeled Santana. Curious, I flip it open. It’s a few police records in regards to that horrible night, as well as some prescriptions. Things like that. I keep flicking through until I come across my sister’s name. It’s only by pure luck that I see it, but it stops me, and I pull out the bundle of papers attached to it.

God, I wonder if it’s her death records.

I flick through. There’s strange information about illegal farms and slaves, as well as some with contact names and dates. Kennedy’s name pops up and I find a newspaper report on his arrest, saying he was taken in for drug possession. A pang radiates through my chest at the thought that Kennedy is now in prison.

I want to hate him and feel as though he deserves that, but I just can’t. He was good to me—maybe to others he was a monster, but he gave me far more than the streets ever could. Yes, my addictions came from him, but I had a roof over my sister’s head and someone who cared. We couldn’t be too picky when negativity surrounded us, could we?

I flick past the article and stare down at some printed emails. They’re from about two years ago, sent from Maddox’s email address. I am about to flick past them when I catch the topic. It’s my sister’s full name and date of birth. Unable to put them down, I sit back and start reading them. The first, or the one on the top, is an email from Maddox. I read it, and my world changes.

To: Cane Earnest

From: Joker’s Wrath MC

Subject: Information on Pippa Lexus

Cane,

I’m contacting you for help with some information. A girl in my care went missing late 2008. From what I’ve been able to gather, she was sold in a drug deal and sent to a farm as a slave. I’ve not been able to find out which farm or to whom she was sold. I’ve been told you have information on these things.

She went missing on November 12th 2008 at around six p.m. I found her sister, and by the time I went back, she was gone. After intense research, I found out what happened to her. As far as I know she’s still alive, and I need to find her. Any information you have on her would be helpful.

Maddox.

I gasp in pure agony, pressing a hand to my throat as I continue to flick through the emails. The man replies with information stating that a girl of that name and birth date was in fact sold overseas only days after, however he had no further information as to where.

No.

No.

I stumble backwards, the papers slipping from my fingers. This has to be a lie. Maybe Maddox was confused. He wasn’t confused, because he told you she was dead. That he found her dead. How could he have possibly confused something like that? It only leaves one, horrible, gut-wrenching truth.

Maddox lied to me.

I don’t realize I’m panting and sobbing until I stumble forward and land on my hands and knees because my eyes are so terribly blurred. I gasp and cry out for my sister as I crawl out into the hall, rage and pure heartbreak fighting to win through. I shove to my feet, wailing in agony as I run.

I crash into a hard, lean chest. Strong hands curl around my shoulders and push me back. Through my blurred vision I see Mack, staring down at me with a confused, worried expression. “Chante, what’s going on?”

“Is it a lie?” I scream so loudly everyone in the room stops.

“What? Honey, what’s going on?”

“My sister, is she fucking dead?”

He flinches and I can see it, I can see every answer I need in his eyes. I pull my hand back and I slap him so hard pain radiates up my arm. “You all lied to me?” I scream so loudly my own ears protest against the invading noise. “You fucking lied to me!”

“Santana,” he says, carefully. “It’s not what you think. Let me call Maddox and . . .”

“Go to hell!”

I run past him, tripping and stumbling a few more times before I get to the door. The pain in my heart can’t be controlled. It feels like someone has shoved a hot poker into my chest and ripped it out, crushing it and stomping on it, before shoving it back in. Pippa. My poor, sweet sister. All along I’ve been living a happy, loving life while she’s been someone’s slave.

At that very thought I collapse to the floor, screaming, my fingernails going to my cheeks and tearing at the skin there as reality crushes me. She’s been alive all this time, scared and alone, living in pure hell while I’ve been enjoying my lying lover. Strong arms go around me, but I squirm in protest, crying out profanities as my feet kick about.