Page 40 of Range
Trying to make sense of what was in front of me.
Trying to figure out how I’d intended to click one file but opened another.
Trying to understand why my baby girl, my whole world, was in such compromising positions with little to no clothes on her five-year-old body.
Darkness coated every crevice of the office as discomfort drove me deeper into the files highlighted with stars.
Images.
More images.
Footage.
More footage.
I couldn’t stomach the sight of my sweet Aubrey in the photos or the footage, but determination kept my eyes steady and my heart running wild in my chest. I went through each file. There was no need to scroll the images. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. The first image of each file was already paralyzing.
Blood filled my mouth, forcing me to let go of the inside of my bottom lip. I pulled in a deep breath, not realizing I’d stopped breathing. My teeth ground against each other as I removed my cellphone from my white jacket and began dialing my sister’s home phone number.
I can’t.
As quickly as I dialed the number, I erased the digits from my screen. Janeese didn’t have the heart to deal with this. She’d never survive this kind of news.
She lived in an alternate world. One I’d created for her, although she was four years older than me. Life had been unfair to her as a child, so I felt it was my responsibility to make sure it was gentler the moment I was able to.
Now, her days consisted of Aubrey, pilates, long walks, burning almost everything she baked, learning new recipes, planning family gatherings, PTA at the school, solo cinema dates, collecting eggs from her chickens, and handwriting letters for elderly family members who lived all over Huffington.
I pressed my balled fist against my lips as the calculations rolled in. Vomit threatened to dirty the already disgusting computer. Because of the hour, there wasn’t anything on my stomach, and for that I was thankful.
Four files. Six hundred images. Two hundred and twelve pieces of footage.
7:26a
My watch provided the time again. I wasn’t sure when Anthony would walk through the door or if he’d manage to make it out of the door, but I knew that I didn’t have much longer on his desktop.
I placed the cursor on an image and copied the name. I then opened Anthony’s emails and pasted it in the search bar.
No results match your search.
I repeated the same step for twenty-six photos.
No results match your search.
I repeated the same steps for thirty-two videos.
No results match your search.
Flustered and agitated with the lack of results, I rubbed my palm against my mouth.
Pondering.
Thinking.
Planning.
Plotting.
Reconsidering my life.
