Chapter 4
Blake
The night winds down, and the Tidal Tavern slowly empties. I start cleaning behind the bar, wiping down counters and stacking glasses. It’s been a long day and I’m ready to crawl into bed.
Lucy waves goodbye—her boyfriend is here to pick her up—and John and Yu Chan are working overtime to clear and clean the tables. Carlos moves through the bar, telling the few remaining groups that it’s time to wrap up.
“Last call, folks. We’re closing.” His voice is firm but friendly.
The Valiant Hearts boys file out. Ethan stops at the door, looking back over his shoulder, and our eyes meet, something intense in his gaze. He steps out into the night, the door swinging shut behind him.
A moment later, the door swings open again. I call out, “We’re closed!” without looking up, but footfalls on the tiled floor lets me know the person is still walking toward me. Finally glancing up, I do a double take: it’s David Rawlinson, my one-time foster brother.
Time stands still for a few beats. I’m looking at a ghost from a life so long ago that it almost seems like it belonged to someone else. Memories slam into me, his worn-out features and haunted eyes bringing it all rushing back.
“David?”
I come around the bar and give him a hug. He feels thinner than I remember, his frame almost fragile. His short brown hair is unkempt, and his pale blue eyes look tired and stressed, lines deepening and appearing where I’ve never seen them before, but he looks sober, at least. His jeans and T-shirt are clean but worn, slightly ill-fitting.
He steps back, holding my gaze before his eyes flick away, darting around. “Hey. It’s been a while. The bar is looking great.”
The last of the customers file out, followed by John and Yu Chan. I turn to Carlos, who’s standing ten feet away, hands on his hips and a frown on his face.
“I’ve got this, Carlos. I’ll lock up. You don’t need to stay. David’s an old friend.” It’s not untrue and has the advantage of being faster than having to talk about being in the foster system and all that bullshit. People get this sad and concerned look when they hear about my past and I don’t have time for that. Best that David is labeled a friend .
Carlos narrows his eyes at David, but he knows not to ask twice when I tell him I can deal with something. “Alright. See you tomorrow. Call if you need anything.” He gives me a final concerned look before heading out, the door swinging closed behind him.
David and I are alone, the bar falling into a hushed silence. Pouring us both a glass of water, I motion for David to join me at one of the tables where the faint smell of lemon cleaning spray lingers. The music is off, and the light over the bar casts long shadows over us.
We both sit, and I study David’s face for a few moments. He looks troubled, his eyes avoiding mine as his fingers trace lines in the condensation forming on the surface of the glass.
“You okay?” I ask gently. “I haven’t seen you in years.”
He takes a sip of the water, sets it back down. “I’ve been better.”
“I’m glad you came by. It’s been too long.”
David smiles, but it’s so far from reaching his eyes it might as well be on a different face. “Yeah, it has. I’ve missed you.”
We sit in silence for a beat, the quiet of the bar comforting in its own way, memories of the foster home we shared flooding my mind. It’s like a dam breaking, the past rushing in with overwhelming force.
I picture Sylvia Thompson and her house, the worst and last of all the homes I was placed in before I was adopted. Sylvia was manipulative and cold-hearted, but she had a way of presenting herself to the outside world as caring and compassionate. It was a front that fooled every case worker who set foot in the house, but we knew the truth.
I met David there. We were both scared kids trying to survive a world that seemed determined to break us. Sylvia’s house was a place of rigid rules and punishments, where kindness was a rare and fleeting thing, and David and I clung to one another.
I was twelve when my moms adopted me, but David wasn’t as lucky. He stayed with Sylvia until he aged out of foster care, enduring her harshness for far longer than any child should.
Over the years, David and I stayed in touch sporadically. There were times when he disappeared, falling into the dark abyss of addiction and homelessness. Each time he resurfaced, he seemed a little more haggard, a little more tormented.
But now, sitting across from me, there are still glimpses of the boy he once was behind those pale, faded blue eyes—the boy who would whisper jokes to make me laugh, who promised he’d look out for me no matter what.
David finally looks up, catching my gaze. He must see something in my expression because he gives me what could only be described as a bitter smile. “Remembering it all, huh?”
I reach out and place my hand on his. There’s a slight tremor, betraying his nerves, and his face is shadowed, making him look even more exhausted. And it’s not just tiredness. He’s soul-weary.
“You’re probably wondering why I turned up after so long.”
He looks away into the distance, pulling his hand back to rest on the table in front of him. “I’ve been getting really bad flashbacks about the things Sylvia did to me,” he says quietly. “It’s been haunting me. And I’ve finally decided to do something about it.”
“You mean all the punishments? The way she’d hold back food?”
He looks me dead in the eye, and the raw pain and desperation there is clear. “Not that. The other stuff. I want to go after Sylvia. I want her to pay for what she did. And I need you to give evidence about how you suffered, what she did to us, how she hurt us.”
A cold chill runs through me, my thoughts racing as I put two and two together. Sylvia was awful, but I have no specific memories of things she could be charged with. But David’s saying she… I shake my head, feeling sick and not wanting to picture his younger self at the mercy of that woman.
“David, I— oh, man. I’m so sorry. Shit. I had no idea.”
“So you’ll help me? I guess we need to find a lawyer first or go to the cops. I don’t know. I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”
Reaching across the table, taking his hand in mine. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know anything that could be used as evidence. She was strict and manipulative, but—”
“You must be blocking it out,” David interrupts, his voice rising. “There’s no way you came out of that house unscathed. Come on Blake, you know what I’m talking about. That room on the top floor of the house. The one that was always locked. You know what happened there.”
“David, I’m sorry. Sylvia was an awful woman, but I didn’t— she never took me in there. I’m so sorry. There’s nothing I can provide as evidence. But I’m here for you.”
He folds his arms over his chest and looks away, staring at the table. “I thought... I thought you’d understand. That you’d remember. Fuck! Come on, Blake. You have to remember.”
I reach out, wishing I could offer him more, but he leans away from me, my hand hanging uselessly in the space between us. “I wish I could help you. I really do. But I can’t testify to something that didn’t happen to me. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen to you.”
“No. I need you. I need someone else, otherwise it’s my word against hers and I can’t do that. I can’t go face to face with her. Who’s going to believe someone like me ?”
“We’ll find a way. There has to be something we can do. Have you spoken to any of the others?”
David looks right at me, the pain in his expression lancing through my chest. “I haven’t been able to track them down.”
“We’re in this together.” My voice is firm. “We’ll figure it out, one step at a time.”
He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I have to go.”
He won’t look at me, and he walks away without looking back, the door closing with a dull thud.
I sit there a moment longer, reeling at his brokenness, anger bubbling inside at whatever Sylvia did to him. I believe David, without a doubt. The pain in his eyes was too real, too raw to be anything but the truth.
And I remember that door. It stood like an unyielding sentinel, always locked, casting an ominous presence over the entire house.
My phone buzzes on the table. It’s Mom.
“Hey.”
“Blake, are you okay? I thought you’d be home by now.” Her voice is tinged with worry.
“I’m fine. Just finishing up here. I’ll be home soon.” Glancing around the empty bar: the quiet feels oppressive now.
“I can hear the tension in your voice. Is everything alright at the Tavern? Are you okay?”
“Everything’s fine, really. Just a busy night.”
“Okay,” she says, but I can still hear the doubt in her tone. “Just make sure you get some rest. I’m going to bed now, but we’ll have breakfast together tomorrow.”
“I will. Goodnight. Love you.” I end the call before she can ask more questions.
Taking a sip of water before grabbing both glasses and returning to the bar, the weight of the evening presses down on me. I’m worried about David and need to figure out a way to help him, but I don’t want Mom finding out about him. She’s already dealing with enough since Mama Charlotte left, and the last thing she needs is more stress.
And it’s not just David. I need to keep the Tavern turning over a profit, even with the oil spill driving tourists away during our busiest months.
Just the thought of adding to Mom’s worries makes my chest tighten. The last thing I’ll ever be is a burden—she needs to know everything is under control, that I’ve got this.