Just the Truth

Chapter 5

"Ok, you have a key but what the hell does it open??" Jacob asked, taking the key from my hands. Tiffany handed me a paper towel so that I could dry my arm off.

"I don't know," I told them honestly.

"Think about something your parents often did," Blaire offered. We moved away from the kitchen and headed back towards the living room.

"My parents didn't keep that many things in their room," I said pacing anxiously back and forth.

"Ok, don't kill yourself over this," Jacob said and then bit his lips.

"Sorry, wrong choice of words. What I mean is you need to relax and let memories come to you, "Jacob corrected himself. I pulled out the black stool from underneath the old grande piano we had in our living room and rolled up my sleeves.

"I would come home from school, and my father would be in the kitchen, cooking something for dinner because my mom would come home late from work," I said quietly to myself as I closed my eyes and felt my fingers reach out for piano keys, buried somewhere in my subconsciousness.

"Georgie... he was watching television even though he had to be doing homework. My dad would scold him, but he was smiling because my brother had just made it onto the soccer team," I moved my fingers faster and faster across the keyboard trying to remember the smells and the feelings of days that had been as forgotten as this song.

"My mom would come home from work, and she might bring us something. A gift or a story about her day, and she would kiss my dad-," but the last words began sounding like garbled noise as my throat constricted, and I felt my eyes stung. Tiffany's hands were on my shoulders as she pulled me away from the piano and pulled me into her arms. I wasn't crying, but I wasn't alright, either. I felt completely and utterly useless.

"It could be nothing, you know? Maybe it's just a spare key to something," Jacob offered, but we all knew that would be something incredibly unlikely. It had to lead to something.

"Charlee, we'll figure it out," Eric promised to move me away from the piano and lead me out of the living room.

Three whole days had passed since we visited both the dumpsite and the scene of the crime, and there were no new developments. So with a heavy heart, I dressed in black and walked solemnly next to my older brother at the funeral.

His usually confident strides were slow and uncertain as he looked around in a lazy daze between the small crowd of people who came to show their respects. It was a sea of black clothes, sympathetic stares, and a sense of gloom so empowering that I felt a gray storm forming within my very soul. I've never been to a funeral, and so far this one leaves me with a great distaste for them.

The idea that funerals have to be this sad and depressing is beyond my understanding. If my parents could have had it their way, they would have much instead preferred that we cremate them and spread their ashes along some tropical island so they could finally get a vacation from work.

However, since they are still thoroughly examining the bodies, they can't be cremated or buried. For the safety of our family, my aunt suggested that we hold a funeral to show that we are trying to move on. If the killer is nearby it will show that the bodies are being put to rest rather than show that we're still hot on his trail by examining the bodies. 

"I think that we missed something at the dumpsite," Eric said as he stood beside me. I sighed and turned to face him.

"Eric, we need to give it a rest, for now, we're going back home right after this," I told him, and he looked at me unsure.

"You don't want to do another sweep?" he asked me, but I shook my head.

"I need to go back to Italy. There's a lot of things we have to get done," I replied. I was hoping the funeral could go by in a blur of empty apologies and awkward conversations, but it dragged on instead. I felt stripped of any sense of determination that I had carried with me on the trip here. I just wanted to go back to Rome and pretend this never happened, as guilty as that thought made me feel.