Lost Game Notes (Novel)

Chapter 10: Eight Thousand

  With a plan in place and ten minutes to spare, Alex cut through the backstreets. He didn't need to be seen, and besides, the directions had said behind rival residence. He picked up his pace—which turned into a jog when he saw five minutes had already slipped by.

Eventually, he came to a sign that said: Connell Property. He didn't stop there, even after passing another sign that read: Private Property.

Before long, the extravagance of a huge, white-walled mansion came into sight, shrouded by brick walls, barbed wire and pine trees, but visible nonetheless. He slowed to a walk, brown leafs crunching without melody underneath his feet. He gazed up at the structure, the huge black back-gate that took up the middle portion of the wall. Compared to this, his house could be classed as a cottage.

Forcing his attention away and onto the looming cluster of trees behind the house, Alex scanned them for a bare one. His eyes latched on seal-gray multitudinous limbs, reaching high against the cloudless sky, stretching out in all directions.

His heart did an involuntary double beat as he hurried down the sloping road, which would eventually wind into a forest of lush trees. He ducked under the sturdy branches and circled the broad trunk. The bark was faded and peeling, indicating the tree was old.

A door. He needed to look for a door. An idea formed in Alex's mind, and he kicked damp, rotten leaves away with the toe of his boot. The earth underneath felt hard. He squatted, diving his hand into decomposing leaves, nearly rendering his finger-nails broken. He scooped the leaves away to reveal a small metallic door.

His mind didn't quite have the capacity to figure out how Dawn knew about this hidden compartment.

Feeling slightly unnerved, Alex flipped the small latch, looped a finger under the little handle, and pulled. The door cracked open with a whine.

He dipped his hand in without a thought as to what was inside, and his fingers graced the torn edge of a paper. He pulled it out. The letters looked a little smudged, like it were a photocopy of the real thing. The letter was addressed to Lawrence Brooke. Skimming over the brick of words in the middle, he found it was a bank statement. In fact, a withdrawal the sum of eight thousand dollars, transacted several weeks ago.

Alex felt himself go faint, his breath hitching. Where on the entire universe had Lawrence gotten eight thousand dollars from? He couldn't honestly have stolen it...? In any case, there was no way he could have acquired that amount through his job when they were just about surviving with what was on the table, barely, even. One couldn't survive on dry cereal for long.

Maybe he had been given that amount of money. Looking over the letter once more told Alex the opposite. The letter was addressed to Lawrence, stating the amount that had been withdrawn, not received. Besides, who would give money to a well known lawyer?

The sound of voices drifted by on the gentle breeze, jolting Alex out of his confused state. He crammed the paper into the pocket on the inside of his hoodie, closing the door to the small compartment in the ground, and kicking the leaves back over it.

He dashed out of the trees, beginning to trace the bend of the road, when suddenly there was a roar of an engine, the screech of tires, and something rammed into Alex's side, sending him hurtling through the air.

The impact threw him a good couple feet, and his back slammed against the rough asphalt. Black dots penetrated his vision, making sky look way too close, same as the face leaning over him cursing profusely.

"What the heck are you doing here?" Jude's voice seethed, hands yanking through his hair, dark eyes flaring.

"You could have killed me," Alex howled, pain exploding in his ribs as he did so. He squeezed his eyes shut, fervently wishing he had never come here in the first place.

Stupid, stupid notes. Stupid Jude.

"Well you shouldn't be here. This is private property. You should know that." Jude's voice was trembling, out of fear or anger, Alex couldn't decipher.

When he didn't respond, Jude's footsteps walked away. An engine roared, and Alex cringed away from the tires he was sure were going to roll over him. When they didn't and the engine faded, he peeled himself off the warm ground, gingerly feeling his ribs to make sure they weren't broken.

Except for the pain throbbing at his side from where he had been hit, and the duller throb in his back, nothing was damaged. He was lucky Jude owned a motorbike, not a car. If Jude did own a car, Alex would probably be dead by now.

He stood up and brushed dirt off the knees of his jeans, his ears picking up the sound of an ongoing shouting match. There was no mistaking the mayors gravely voice, along with Mrs. Connell's high-pitched whine: