Six Ways to War

PART ONE // Chapter One

            Dreams never make sense, one second I'm driving a go-kart with my boyfriend and the next second I'm on a bird made entirely of fire soaring through the sky then diving into a lagoon and picking up an old mirror that doesn't show my reflection. They just don't make sense and yet, I find myself wishing the adventures of my imagination were real or maybe I just wish I could escape my life and be anywhere but here. In reality, my alarm is shouting at me to get my butt out of bed and start my day. I press snooze. I don't have anything important to do today and I don't have to be at work for another eight hours – the benefits of working at a nighttime only music bar.

Minutes into my attempt to dream again, my phone begins ringing and I cover my head with a pillow, hoping that somehow the phone will understand I don't care and the ringing will stop. It doesn't.

Groaning, I pick up the phone without checking who it is. "Hello?"

"Sorry to call so early, Ms. McQueen but I found something. Can you come in in an hour?"

Sitting straight up and my heart pounding in my ears, I find my voice. "You found something?"

"Yes," Mr. Davenport says. "I think its best we go over it in person."

Sharply inhaling, I say, "Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you so much."

A pause. "Don't thank me yet. See you soon."

And that's the end of that conversation.

An hour later, I'm sitting in the waiting room of Whirlwind Investigations waiting for Mr. Davenport to call me to the back. My leg jiggles up and down while I listen to music, not hearing any of the lyrics. My eyes wander around the room, staring at the beige walls and landscape paintings hanging around the room. What could Mr. Davenport have found? And why is he two minutes later than he said he would be?

A hand on my shoulder sends a jolt through my body and my headphones are off in one swift movement.

"Ms. McQueen, thank you for waiting. Please come back," Mr. Davenport says, leading the way to his office. His office is as bland as I remember it – the same beige walls and a simple brown desk in the center of the small office with a chair on either side. He sits behind the desk, his computer screen black. Sitting in front of him, all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears and the restlessness coursing through my body. He reaches behind him and places a black shoe box on his desk in front of me.

"Just to recap what we've found so far," Mr. Davenport folds his hands on the desk and leans forward, "We found the adoption agency you were dropped off at and found that it had been shut down. Then we tracked down the owner who refused to speak with us."

"And we thought that was the end of it. I thought it was the end of it," I say, nearly begging Mr. Davenport to skip to the end where he found something. My palms are so sweaty on the arm rests of the chair.

He smiles, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "Yes, I thought it was as well. Until last night when I received an email from the owner's daughter. Her mother passed away a month ago and she was going through her stuff when she found this." He taps the shoe box and spins it around.

Evie McQueen is written clearly on the side of the box.

"She recalled denying our request to speak with her mother last year, said it had been weighing on her so when she found this, she dug up my card and emailed immediately. I picked it up this morning."

My throat tightens and breathing is something I seem to have forgotten how to do. "Have you – have you opened it?"

Mr. Davenport shakes his head and waves me on. I stare at the box. Answers. That's what could be inside. The answers I've been waiting for.