14. Ethan
14
Ethan
T he scents of produce and freshly baked bread greeted him as Ethan pushed through the glass door and mentally ticked off items: something to make for a few meals and a few more cans of dog food for Hero. He grabbed a cart and started down the first aisle. Plucking a crisp head of lettuce and a bag of bright orange carrots from the display, his mind wandered back to the animal rescue and the eventful day he’d spent there.
Despite her attempts to hide it, he couldn’t help but notice how much she was struggling. After all, the rescue was chronically understaffed by her own admission. He felt a twinge of concern for Kara and the animals in her care.
What can I do to help?
At the rescue he’d worked at in Virginia, they had thrown regular adoption events and fundraisers that had always gone over well. Second Chance had hosted a big event just yesterday, yet the kennels were still full, so it seemed like they needed more than just occasional events to keep up with the influx of animals. Perhaps a more consistent volunteer base could be the start of turning things around? Lost in thought, Ethan absently navigated the grocery aisles ...
Wheeling his cart around the corner, a wry smile tugged at his lips as he realized the familiar arrangement of shelves and products had remained unchanged since he had last visited over twenty years ago. He passed by the rows of condiments and jars of pickles. Stopping at the pasta sauce, he grabbed a jar and picked up a box of rigatoni, then headed to the next aisle. Then he scanned the shelves for dog food and handpicked several cans, stacking them in his arms.
While juggling the cans and steering his cart, Ethan rounded the corner and froze, nearly dropping the dog food. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes locked onto an all-too-familiar face. A cold sweat prickled Ethan’s skin as his heart hammered against his ribs.
That’s when Whitaker Walker’s eyes narrowed in recognition.
With trembling hands, Ethan spun his cart around and beelined for the nearest checkout, where he haphazardly scooped items from his cart and dumped them onto the conveyor belt. He fumbled for a few bills to pay the cashier. “Keep the change.”
“Need a hand with those bags, sir?” the cashier asked.
Ethan shook his head and grabbed the bags, hurrying out of the store as quickly as he could without running, not daring to look back to see if Whitaker was watching him. He tossed the bagged groceries onto the passenger seat, struggled to find his keys before cranking the engine to life, and reversed out of the spot with a screech from the tires.
At a red light, Ethan briefly closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, remembering the calming techniques Dr. Hartman had taught him.
“Four ... seven ... eight ...” Ethan mumbled under his breath.
Even as he counted, his heart drummed in his chest, refusing to settle. When the light turned green, he forced his foot back on the gas, determined to focus on his breathing. He inhaled deeply through his nose for a count of four ... held it for seven ... then exhaled slowly through his mouth for eight, repeating this pattern at every stop.
By the time he made the last turn into the driveway of his dad’s house, Ethan’s breathing had steadied, though his hands still gave way to a slight tremble.
He put the truck in park, sat for a moment, and continued the exercise.
“In, two, three, four ...” he whispered, inhaling. He held the breath, counting silently to seven. Then, “Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” as he exhaled slowly.
Several deep breaths later, the tremors in Ethan’s hands had eased enough for him to collect his groceries, paper bags crinkling as he reached the front door, unlocking it.
Ethan stumbled inside, greeted by Hero sprawled on the living room rug. Hero sprang up and walked over to him, following him to the kitchen.
On the counter, Ethan grabbed his bottle of meds, opened it, and took out a pill. Then he filled a glass at the sink and swallowed. Glancing down at the bottle, he realized he was down to his last couple of pills.
Ethan frowned, recalling his last conversation with Dr. Hartman.
When did she say the refill would be ready?
Ethan placed the bottle back on the counter, positioning it prominently so he wouldn’t forget. He even set a reminder on his phone, just in case. For now, though, he needed to put away the groceries.
Leaning against the counter, Ethan smiled as Hero padded over, tail wagging. “Hey, buddy,” Ethan said, reaching out to scratch behind Hero’s ears. “How’d you do while I was gone? Kept the house safe for me?”
Hero barked, pressing his head into Ethan’s hand.
Ethan chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now, how about we get these groceries put away, and maybe we can go for a walk?”
At the word ‘walk,’ Hero’s ears perked, and he barked again.
“All right, all right,” Ethan grinned. “Let’s take care of business first.”
When Ethan began unpacking the grocery bags, Hero trotted after him, nose twitching with interest at the various scents. Then as Ethan reached for a can of dog food, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.
“Mr. Clark,” he muttered, recognizing the attorney’s number.
With a deep breath, he answered the call. “Hey, Mr. Clark.”
“Ethan, good to catch you. I’m calling to check on your progress.”
“The deed, right. Look, I’ve been—” Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s been a lot. I sorted through some mail, but that’s about it. This weekend was—complicated. I just got back actually.”
Ethan watched as Hero trotted to the doggy door and slipped outside.
“This deed is crucial. Without it, the house can’t be sold. And if I recall correctly, you were quite insistent on a quick sale. Yes?”
Ethan blinked, snapping back to the call. “I get it, Mr. Clark, I do. Trust me, I want out of here as soon as possible. I’ll find the deed, even if I have to tear this place apart today.”
It had been seven hours, and still, the deed was nowhere to be found, despite Ethan’s best efforts in turning the small house upside down. At first, he was methodical; then, with increasing desperation as the deed continued to elude him, reckless.
Hero followed closely behind, sniffing curiously at the now-scattered items.
He’d started in the living room, upending the old couch cushions and checking behind the familiar framed photos on the walls. The kitchen had been next—every cabinet emptied, even the freezer searched on the off chance his dad had stashed it there one drunken night.
The bathroom yielded nothing but the same old medicine cabinet contents and the sink that had always dripped. In his bedroom, Ethan yanked the faded blue comforter from the bed, rifled through every pocket of the clothes still hanging in the pine wardrobe, and crawled under the creaky twin bed he’d outgrown years ago, emerging with cobwebs in his hair that he combed out with his fingers. He sifted through stacks of old newspapers and books that had accumulated over decades, and even searched inside the TV he and his dad used to watch ballgames, half-convinced his dad could’ve hollowed it out as a secret hiding spot.
Hero grabbed at the loose papers, thinking Ethan was playing a game. Ethan gently shooed him away. “Not now, boy.”
Standing in the hallway, amid the chaos of his search, Ethan crossed his arms and kicked an empty cardboard box aside. The house was a mess, every surface covered in displaced items. Clutter filled the corners, a lifetime’s accumulation of possessions strewn about—old tools from his dad’s workdays, clothes Ethan had long outgrown, and knick-knacks collected over years of tight budgets and simple living.
On the way to the kitchen, Ethan froze. There was one place he hadn’t checked.
Dad’s closet.
With fresh resolve, he strode to the master bedroom. The closet door groaned on its hinges as he pulled it open, revealing a jumble of clothes and boxes. As he searched, his hand brushed against something he knew well, like an old song—his dad’s Marine dress blues. The crisp fabric and polished buttons shone even in the dim light. He reached out, running his fingers along the sleeve of the dress coat.
A memory flashed—six-year-old Ethan, standing before the mirror, drowning in his dad’s uniform coat. The sleeves hanging well past his hands, the hem nearly touching the floor, his dad’s warm laughter filling the room.
“You’ll grow into it someday, kiddo,” his dad had said, ruffling Ethan’s hair.
Ethan blinked against the sudden sting in his eyes and turned toward a shoebox tucked in the closet’s corner. Inside, he found postcards and small mementos from the patchwork of places they’d called home over the years. Hero settled beside him, resting his head on Ethan’s knee as he sifted through fragments of their nomadic past.
A faded postcard of a magnolia blossom brought back memories of the sweltering Mississippi heat. Ethan remembered the tiny apartment they’d shared, his dad working long hours at a shipyard while Ethan adapted to yet another new school.
Next, he picked up a small carved wooden bison. North Dakota—where winter seemed to last forever, and the wind never stopped howling. His dad had found work on an oil rig, and often came home exhausted but somehow always made time to help Ethan with his homework.
Then a keychain shaped like the Liberty Bell transported Ethan to their longest stretch in one place—Pennsylvania. His dad had initially thrived on the city’s energy, securing a steady job in Philadelphia. But as years passed, the pressures of city life took their toll. The overtime hours grew longer, and Ethan watched his dad’s drinking evolve from a few beers after work to a nightly ritual, with a growing collection of bottles in the recycling bin, carefully hidden under newspapers.
Ethan learned to recognize the slight slur in his dad’s speech, the stumbling gait as he came home later and later. The smell of whiskey became a constant presence, clinging to his old man’s clothes and breath. Memories of those years were mixed with bright spots—trips to Independence Hall, Phillies games—and darker moments of arguments and broken promises.
Finally, his fingers closed around a small ceramic lighthouse, a souvenir from their first day in Hadley Cove. Ethan remembered the day clearly—His dad, sober and grinning, had picked it up at a quaint shop on the boardwalk.
“This is our second chance, son,” he’d said, his eyes clear for the first time in years. “We’re going to make a real home here.”
His dad had secured a job at a local factory, thanks to an old Marine buddy. For a while, it seemed like things were looking up. The small town’s peaceful atmosphere appeared to have a positive effect, and Ethan dared to hope that this time things would be different.
But as weeks turned into months, familiar patterns emerged. It started with “just one beer” after a long shift, then a few more. Soon, Ethan was finding hidden bottles around the house again. The ceramic lighthouse, once proudly displayed on the mantel, had been knocked over during one of his dad’s stumbling late-night returns. Now, it sat in this closet as a chipped reminder of what could have been but never was.
Ethan sighed, gently setting down the lighthouse. Near it, he pushed aside a stack of old flannel shirts before his hand struck something solid. He cleared away more debris, revealing a small safe tucked into the corner. His heart raced.
Could this be it?
Pulling the safe out, his hands shook slightly as he examined it. It was an old model, probably as old as he was, with a keyhole on the front. He ran his fingers over the cool metal, searching for any hidden compartments where his dad may have stashed the key, but found nothing.
Ethan glanced around the closet, hoping to spot a key hanging on a nail or tucked into a pocket, but came up empty. He even checked the pockets of the Marine dress blues, thinking his dad might have hidden it there, but no luck.
Glancing at his phone and registering the late hour, he carefully placed the safe on his dad’s old dresser with a sigh.
I’ll get a locksmith tomorrow.