Never Tell Them, N.L. Hinkens [unputdownable books txt] 📗

He’d spent a fair amount of time and money trying to find him—even going so far as to put a highly rated private investigator on the job. She’d been thorough in pursuing all possible avenues but concluded that Tom was either deceased and law enforcement had been unable to determine his legal identity, or he was living off-grid somewhere and had no wish to be found.

Ray and Tom had talked about the idea a lot when they were younger—romanticizing the notion of living off the land and being accountable to no one. But Ray doubted Tom had actually gone through with it. As hard as it was to accept, the more likely scenario was that his brother had succumbed to a life on the streets. The cards were stacked against him with addiction running in the family.

Forty-five minutes later, Ray pulled into the driveway of a tired-looking craftsman-style bungalow. He sat in the truck staring at the building for several minutes before he became aware of an older woman sitting on her porch peering curiously across at him. He snatched the envelope off the seat and climbed out, ducking his head to avoid having to acknowledge her as he made his way to the door. The less contact he had with his mother’s neighbors, the better.

His plan was to look around inside and assess the situation. With a bit of luck, the house would only require a fresh coat of paint to get it ready for sale, and he could unload it quickly. He didn’t relish the idea of spending weeks on end sprucing it up and carrying out repairs. Nor was he interested in listing the contents on Craigslist or hosting a garage sale. Depending on the condition the furniture was in, he would either donate it or toss it. The quicker he got out of there, the sooner he could get on with his life.

Stepping inside, he wrinkled his nose at the musty smell pervading the space. Every appointment bore witness to the age of the departed inhabitant. The kitchen was straight from the seventies—laminate cabinets and countertops, an avocado green dishwasher, and a harvest yellow tile backsplash. The wood cabinets were topped with wicker baskets overflowing with plastic ivy and faded fake flowers. Ray curled his lip in distaste. The color palette alone was enough to induce a migraine.

With a mounting sense of dread, he made his way into the family room, groaning aloud at the hideous statement-stone fireplace wall that greeted him. Every square inch of space in the room was cluttered with lamps, ottomans, footstools, and nesting tables overflowing with ornaments and knickknacks. The arms and backs of the couch and chairs were bedecked with yellowing lace doilies. The entire room smacked of a love affair with the color brown, culminating in a particularly distasteful carpet that resembled dead leaves on a forest floor.

Resigning himself to tackling a bigger job than he’d anticipated, Ray searched out Celia’s bedroom next. He grimaced as he took in the space: the obligatory shag carpet, a gaudy, floral window treatment that matched the comforter on the queen-sized bed, an uncomfortable-looking tufted chair upholstered in Wedgewood blue, and a lopsided oak dresser with grooves for handle pulls. There was no getting around it. The whole house would have to be renovated, beginning with renting a skip to handle all the junk he’d encountered so far.

He slid apart the mirrored closet doors, almost gagging from the overpowering stench of mothballs that hit him. He didn’t relish the idea of going through his mother’s clothes. Maybe he could bag them up and donate them as is. By the looks of things, he would have more than enough to handle without sifting through an elderly woman’s wardrobe and trying to figure out what was worth saving.

Eying the shoeboxes on the shelf above the clothing rack, he reached for the nearest one and peeked inside. It was jammed full of papers—letters and the like. Probably trash, but he would have to go through them all to make sure. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began rifling through the contents. Three shoeboxes later, he stumbled on a pile of bank statements. As he leafed disinterestedly through them, the sum of $4500 caught his eye. Scrutinizing the statements more closely, he was surprised to see that $4500 had been transferred out of Celia’s account every month for the past five years. Where on earth was the money going? It was almost two-thirds of her monthly income. She owned a modest rental property, but, apart from that, her only income was a small pension and her social security check.

Ray returned the shoeboxes to the closet and took the pile of statements down to the kitchen. He would call the bank and see if they could help him get to the bottom of it. First, he needed some coffee. He rummaged through the array of brightly colored ceramic canisters on the countertop until he found what he was looking for.

As he waited for the coffee to brew in the archaic machine, he ran his eye over a calendar hanging above the phone documenting his mother’s last known movements: a trip to the hairdresser, a doctor’s appointment, a grocery list; bread, milk, tuna, oranges. He pulled out the alphabetical address book beneath the phone and thumbed through it. The breath caught in his throat when he came to the letter “J.”

Tom Jenkins, 35.7647° N, 82.2653° W

24

For several days, Ray went back-and-forth about what the coordinates meant, debating what to do about them. Was Tom alive—living off-grid someplace? Had he given Celia the coordinates? That would mean his mother and younger brother had been in contact with one another. It could also explain the $4500 Celia was transferring into an unidentified account each month. But why would Tom need the money? And why had no one told Ray his brother was alive?

A wave of remorse coursed through him as the harsh truth hit home. He