The Last Entry

Chapter I

   “White chocolate mocha for Linna! Linna!” The barista called my name, annoyed, or maybe tired. I had waited twenty minutes for this coffee, my mind hopping between agitating parts of my life—the unending workload at my job and a looming emptiness at home ever since I moved out. I forced a polite smile, acknowledging the barista's impatience as I grabbed the cup with my name written in thick Sharpie.  Irritation bubbled beneath the surface as I searched for a seat, hoping the coffee would drown out the unsettling restlessness within me.

Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt.

   Strange—the vibration in my pocket echoed louder than the cafe noise. My heart stuttered as I fumbled for my phone, the coldness of the screen biting my palm. I paused for a second, hesitating, before I tapped the green button, praying it wasn’t more spam calls.
   “Hello?” The cafe noise pressed in around me. I wove through tables toward the door, frowning as I took a sip of my coffee. The milky foam went down my throat and warmed my stomach as I stepped outside into the cold.
   “Is this Ms. Westwood?” A deep, masculine voice spoke through the phone, sounding tired. I murmured an acknowledgment.
   “Jackson Westwood, your father, is dead.”
   "Oh," is all I could say. How could I say anything else? The man who raised me is dead; I won't ever get to hold those large, warm hands again, beat him one more time at a board game, or have movie night. He's dead. Gone. No goodbye. I remember the way he used to sing off-key while cooking breakfast on Sunday mornings, the aroma of sizzling bacon filling the air as he'd pass me the pancake batter with a playful wink.
   My legs carried me to one of the outdoor tables—the kind with an umbrella, meant for warmer days. I gripped the edge of it. He'll never meet my future children, his grandkids. When was the last time I told him, "I love you"? Did he think about me?
  I bit my bottom lip till I tasted blood. I’m an adult now, I don’t need to hold my daddy’s hand every step of the way anymore.
   I still stir my coffee, but my mind is blank, paper-white, silent. There is nothing I can think about.
   “His body was found at six am, in his residence on Fletcher Street. The coroner confirmed his death at the scene,” the caller continues. It temporarily grounds me, but I keep slipping back into shock, whether I want to or not.
   My hands are gripping the table, but I don’t remember telling them to. The detective kept talking, but his words arrived late and were blocked out by the beating of blood in my ears. I looked towards the window; I appeared calm, yet my eyes had a panicked look. I didn’t recognize myself.
   I look down, breathing heavily, at the cracks in the sidewalk that web through the gray concrete, with gum and other litter gathering near the brick walls of the cafe. I take another sip of my coffee, it’s bitter and cold now, and I don’t enjoy it as much.
I don’t cry; instead, a sharp laugh escapes me after finally processing that. Indeed, Jackson Westwood, my father, is deceased. I shouldn’t. But I did.

   “And who are you?”
  
   “Detective Elliot Hale, ma’am,” the voice says matter-of-factly. Detective Hale cleared his throat as if preparing to drop new, unsettling information.”Ms. Westwood, come to the morgue.”

   “Yes, sir.”

   My breath came out in puffs of white, yet my cheeks were warm and wet. My phone vibrated with a notification, an address sent by Detective Hale. I should be crying, I should be heartbroken, but a pit has formed in my stomach.

   I press the red button at the bottom of my screen.
  
   Beep.