Obscure Blood

Chapter Four

As he was walking away from a porch, an old lady in her late 70s stopped him and spoke her name, "Hi, my name is Hawoman Parish."

She had suddenly appeared from the sidewalk. Octa was about half a mile away from his childhood house.

"I just want to know more personal information about my father."

"You look like your mother," she said, when he turned his face toward her.

"Do I know you?"

"No, likely you don't remember, but I know you," she said.

"What can you tell about my family?"

The old lady invited him in. There were two brown couches and a TV. The couches were torn. The walls were cracked. The wooden floor creaked under every footstep as he followed her further inside and saw pictures of her and his mother. Though her hair was gray and her hands wrinkled, she walked slowly but without trembling.

"I know you, you're my mother's friend."

"Yes," she said, leading him into the kitchen.

She poured some coffee in a cup, handed it to him and motioned for him to take a seat in the living room. For a minute, he walked around the room looking at the pictures. They both took a seat. They were sitting down on different set of couches facing each other.

Her face could have been taken for that of a 50-year-old's. She looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Your dad changed ten years after marrying your mother." Octa recalled the history of his father's service as a police officer. After his first partner had died in the line of duty, his father had developed PTSD. It was about ten years into the marriage that all this happened.

"Do you remember the names of his partners?" he asked. "No, I don't," she said.

"Should I call you Ms–?"

"Ms. Parish, please."

The look on her face was depressing. She took a long pause before speaking again.

"Did my mother ever tell you anything about fights?" he asked.

"No, your mother portrayed the marriage as heaven," she said. "They were a lovely couple. I'm not sure what could have happened to your father's mind if he really did kill her. I have seen you at your family home. What are you looking for?"

"I just want to know more personal information about my father."

"You should contact your mother's sister if she's still alive."

"My mother had a sister?" he responded, his eyes opening as wide as those of a wolf. "What's her name?" he asked, suddenly curious.

Ms. Parish rose to her feet, finished her cup of coffee, looked straight at Octa, and said, "You need to leave now."

Octa's eyes quickly scanned the room, and looked outside for any unusual things.

Without interruption, he found his way out as he thanked the lady for the information she had provided to him. He walked back to his old home.

He reentered his parents' house and went into their master bedroom. He was looking for any leftover things from the day his mother was murdered. He pulled open drawer after drawer, went from door to door, and threw books and other objects on the floor. Nothing was of great value. He sighed. He was tired, and stretched and yawned.

Looking down desperately, his eyes stopped moving and stared down at half of a picture sticking out of a book. He bent down and removed the photograph. It was of his mother, clearly showing her blue eyes, darkish hair, and white skin, his father, with brownish yellow eyes, dark hair, and light brown skin, and another lady, who had the same traits as his mother, except that this woman's eyes were green. There was a note on the back: From Chelsea Cracker to Molly Cracker. Love. Your sister.

Chelsea Cracker must be the sister, he thought. How can I never have heard about you or even met you in my childhood? Having a picture made things easier for him. Regaining his senses, he called a friend from human resources and asked for any addresses that matched her name or any recent information on her. Then, just as he was putting the picture in his pocket and leaving the bedroom, he stopped. A noise inside the house had grabbed his attention. It sounded like someone had stumbled. Maybe it was in the living room.

He slowly made his way to the living room, though he could not walk that fast. From around the edge of the doorway, he saw someone take something from the bookshelf in the living room and put it in their back pocket. He couldn't see what it was. The person's face was masked, his hands were covered with gloves and he wore long, gray sweatpants and long sleeves, Octa thought it was a man. The person's biceps and triceps were bulging whenever there was a movement.

"Freeze," he said. He raised his weapon toward the man.

The intruder was kneeling before, came up from the floor, quickly grabbed the handle of a bag, rushed toward the window, and ducked down. Octa shot but he missed the intruder with all three shots. Why would Octa shoot at the perpetrator while he had no gun? Perhaps, the man was just someone who was looking for something valuable to pawn. I just wanted to scare him with some bullets, but somehow he sensed I would never shoot him, he thought. That bag he took is full of albums and family letters.

Octa attempted to sprint toward the window, but his injuries prevented him from running. Though he saw the runner's back, he was too late. The intruder jumped in a car and sped away.