Page 7 of Outcast’s Return

Jolie walked in on me. I stopped, mid-cut through the bread. She glared at me, and then she walked out. I couldn’t describe the feeling, but I was suddenly very confused when she was gone. That was very unlike me. In that moment, it was like she could look straight through me... as if she had the ability to see me in a way others did not. It was so strange. Sure, I had Baptiste and Clement who listened to me and looked out for me, but Jolie?

Whatever it was... whatever she was... it freaked me out.

Yep. No touching. I didn’t even want to go near her.

I had never come across a girl like her before. I was young, but even then, the girls I had met tried hard to be cool and distant. But Jolie was different. I couldn’t shake the sense that, even though we had not said a word to each other, there were no words needed to say between us.

But I couldn’t afford to think about her. I had too much going on. I was determined to find out what truly happened to my father and mother. The Castaways Elders refused to divulge any facts of my parents’ murder. It was like they were being erased, even though my father had been the leader of the most powerful secret society in the world. They were being wiped from history before their bodies were cold.

I had overheard something said at the funeral between two Elders about a mysterious Masked Killer, and how they had completely disappeared after the killings, but that’s all the information I had. There were no answers for a young, orphaned boy with no family.

You are my legacy, son.

Cromwell Auclair, most of all, kept me in the dark about the details of that day at the Cote mansion. He was good to me, but it felt like the man was preparing me, like Clement, for a life as a member of the powerful Order. There was no love from him. There was nothing like the care I got from my own father.

I quickly learned Cromwell Auclair was a man comfortable keeping secrets.

And I was left to grieve on my own. Clement and Baptiste tried the best they could, but as boys, they had no understanding of how to comfort their friend who saw his parents’ bodies lying in their own blood.

So I drifted inside myself.

I wasn’t going to show my pain to the world. I wasn’t going to display weakness. I had to learn to fight.

I would lie in my bed for hours each night, unable to sleep, trying to process what had happened. Every time I dared close my eyes, I was haunted by the image of their lifeless bodies. There, in the darkness and solitude of my room at the Auclair mansion, I would sometimes let go and cry.

I didn’t like that. My parents didn’t need tears; they needed action. Vengeance. And as badly as I wanted it, I knew I was far too young to do a damn thing about it.

And so, I hardened. Slowly. The walls around my soul grew. Brick by brick. Day by day.

Soon, I no longer cried.

There was only anger.

Only rage.

And the desire for information also grew stronger. Sneaking out at night, I would get on Cromwell’s computer in his private office to research online. To try to find anything to do with my parents.

It was hard searching for scraps. The Castaways keep themselves heavily cloaked from the public. My father was not a known figure, and deliberately so. I had only a limited time to scour the internet on that computer. I was always wary of Cromwell walking in. Of being found.

The first night passed by with nothing gained. I was merely testing the waters, scanning the computer. Seeing how far I could make it without being discovered. I successfully crept into Cromwell’s office and out again, vowing to go further.

The second night was when I found something. An image online.

It was of both my parents smiling at some function. It was nothing, a snap taken mid-conversation, but to me it was everything.

As the computer hummed in the darkness of Cromwell’s office in the middle of the night, I stared at the photo until my eyes blurred.

It was like they were there with me.

I was so consumed by the discovery that I had let my guard down.

“What are you doing?”

The question startled me.

I’ve been caught.

But it wasn’t Cromwell’s voice. It was someone sweeter.