Chapter 2
The evening sun slowly slips behind the Ozark Mountains, casting long, amber ribbons to cascade across the front room floor. Tommy shivers at the memory that still clings to him, like the bone-chilling dampness on a cold winter's day. Tommy slowly glances around the room to find his four growing kids are happy, healthy, and content. Something he didn't believe was possible that horrid night.
Two of the attackers were arrested, while the remaining managed to escape. With their position compromised, the marshals had no choice but to uproot the family again to a new safe house in an entirely different state. It was a small price to pay if it meant keeping them safe.
Tommy glances around the room again and smiles at the sight. Glad we all made it out alive.
His third youngest, Gabe, the eleven-year-old brainiac of the bunch, is helping his older brother, Chris, with his algebra, a class Gabe aced in the fourth grade.
Adam, their younger boy, is sitting at the opposite end of the table with intense concentration as he continues to build a Minecraft theme with various types of clay. Adam is the only one of the five who shows true artistic talent. Besides sculpting, the nine-year-old loves to draw and paint.
Isabella, Jen and Tommy's only daughter is having teatime with her dolls at the breakfast nook. "Here you go, Mr. Snuggles," she says, smiling sweetly as she scoots the tiny saucer in front of her toy rabbit.
I wish he would join us, Tommy thinks, glancing towards the stairs. Timmy, the oldest, has been up in his room since he got home from school, blaring his God-awful head-banging music the moment he stepped through the door. Since hitting his teens nearly two years ago, he pretty much stays to himself. When he does make his grand appearance, he gives everyone so much grief that they wish he'd go back to his cave.
The music intensifies, Tommy hears shouting, quickly followed by a door slam, and then he hears heavy footsteps tromping down the hall.
Jen storms down the steps, her jaw clenched, eyes narrow, eyebrows knitted, and her face red with fury. Holding something in her hand, she says, "We have to talk. Now." Jen is as frustrated with Timmy's rebellious attitude as he is.
Tommy glances up to see Timmy barreling down the steps behind her. "It's just a stupid phone, Mom." He argues, trying to snatch it away.
Jen turns; with fire in her eyes, she waves the device around and says, "You know cell phones are forbidden in this house."
Timmy being Timmy stands his ground. "I was only using it to talk to my friends."
"On social media," Jen quickly points out.
"Yeah, so." Timmy shrugs.
"We specifically told you not to post anything on social media."
"The only thing I post is messages to my friends."
"Using your school photo as a profile pic."
"So?"
"You're putting us in danger by doing that." Jen thrusts the cell at him and says, "I want it taken down, now."
Timmy crosses his arms in a huff. His posture tenses, his eyes narrow, and his feet are planted, letting his parents know he isn't giving in. "This isn't fair."
"Do what your mom says, son," Tommy warns in a stern voice.
Timmy spins on his heels; with a defiant gleam in his eye, he says, "No."
Tommy snatches the phone away. "I'll do it then."
Timmy's face twists with fury. Daggers shoot from his eyes. He glares at his dad and says, "This is your fault, Dad, all of it." He continues waving his hands through the air. "The hiding, the secrecy, having to leave everything behind—it's all because of you and what you did with the mob." Spinning around, the young man stomps his way up the stairs.
Tommy exhales long and weary as he shakes his head. In a slow mutter, he says, "We knew this day was coming. Tommy glances at his younger bunch again to find all four absorbed in their work, seemingly unfazed by Timmy's outburst.
This is my fault, Tommy thinks, thinking back to how that wrong decision changed their life.
Besides a few recent family photos, the walls around them are bare. There aren't any family photos or baby pictures of the boys secretly stored away anywhere, a stipulation enforced by the police.
When the younger three ask about their relations, or when the school project is a family tree, he and Jen make people up, tearfully inventing happy but fake memories, explaining that their grandparents have passed.
The method works well for the three youngest, since they were babies when their world fell apart. But the two oldest, Timmy and Cris, were eight and six at the time, remembering more than either parent hoped they would.
"What do you think we should do, Tommy?"
"I need to explain why things have to be this way."
Tommy knocks on the door, then tries the knob but finds it's locked. "Timmy, can we talk?" he asks, leaning against the barrier.
"Go away, Dad." "Timmy says," slamming his feet against the top of the bed.
In a steady voice, Tommy says, "I know you're mad right now, and I completely understand why you're so frustrated, but things have to be the way they are in order to keep us safe."
"We wouldn't have to go through all of this if you hadn't done what you did."
Tommy swipes the loose hair that's fallen into his face, sighs and says in a softer tone, "You're right, Timmy, it is my fault. You have to understand that I only did it to save your mom's and sister's lives."
"And now we have to hide?"
"We aren't hiding, exactly; we're just being careful, is all."
"Same thing."
Tommy sighs, "Look, Timmy, I get it; you want to talk with your friends, but is one conversation on Facebook worth risking everyone's life?"
"It is to me." Walking across the room, Timmy cranks up his stereo, hoping to drown out his father. Timmy was done with his father's excuses, the half-truths in attempts to make himself look like a hero. A few seconds later, he hears footsteps descending towards the stairs.
Finally, he thinks. Adrenaline courses through him as he tosses a few things into his backpack. Running over to the window, Timmy glances out to find his rope ladder gently swaying with the cool evening breeze. He often slips out at night to have a few beers with his friends, a break from his parents' rigid routine. In those brief moments of time, he can pretend to have a normal life.
He then recalls his father's reasoning about having to live the way they are now, the false stories, their fictitious identities, fake everything. The way he feels like a fraud pretending to be someone he's not. I hate everything about this damn place, Timmy thinks, glaring out into the cool night.
Oh, how I wish he could tell his best friend everything. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so isolated, so alone in this cold, lonely world. Timmy often lies awake at night imagining what a relief it would be to finally come clean.
I can't even share my swimming trophies with the guys, he thinks, eyeing the floor hatch. Timmy was so proud of his accomplishment, but now since he can't share it with anyone, it's like his achievements didn't exist. They are my only proof that I was so much more than who I'm pretending to be, that I'm not a loser, a wannabe like the rest of the gang.
Timmy glances at the door then out the window one last time. "I'm going to take care of this shit, once and for all." Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Timmy grabs the coarse rope and shimmies down.