Page 26 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 2
When he comes, filling me with his heat, he collapses on me, driving himself even deeper. He thrusts slowly in and out, marking every inch of me.
There’s no question who I belong to. None at all.
This man owns me.
Chapter 11 – Tyler
Two weeks later
I’m not sure this is a good idea, but Ian insists it’s something he needs to do. That it’s a key part of the closure he needs regarding the trauma of his early childhood. But I’m not convinced he’s going to get any closure from looking at photos of his early life. If anything, I’m afraid this might set him back. These photos are physical reminders of what he endured before the state of Illinois terminated Rhonda Mitchell’s parental rights—and rightly so. She may be in a much better place now—sober and drug-free, with a stable job and an apartment—but back then, she was wholly unsuitable to be a parent.
And Ian suffered as a result.
Just thinking about what he went through makes my gut clench painfully.
I hear footsteps behind me.
“I’m ready.”
I turn from the front parlor window to face Ian, who’s standing in the doorway holding that damn photo album clutched to his chest. I know for a fact he hasn’t even cracked the cover yet. He’s too afraid.
The babies have just had their evening bottle and baths, and they’re down for the night. At least that’s the plan. We’ve learned the hard way that babies don’t always stick to the plan. If we’re lucky, they’ll sleep through the night again. They’re almost three months old now, and they’re sleeping longer and longer at night, which meanswe’refinally starting to get more sleep.
Ian’s eyes are wide with apprehension.
I honestly don’t know if seeing these photos will help him or hurt him. “Babe—”
He heads for the bar, where I have two shots of whiskey already poured for us. “No, really, I think I’m ready.” He picks up one of the glasses and knocks back the liquor. He coughs and winces as he sets his empty glass back on the bar.
Yeah, sure, this is a good idea. It’s already driving him to drink.
“Tyler, please,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “I want to do this.”
I attempt to relax my posture because apparently I’m telegraphing my unease. “Okay, fine.”
After I knock back my shot of whiskey, I pluck the album from his grasp, take his hand, and lead him across the hall to the living room. I motion for him to sit, and he does. “Okay, we’ll try this. But if you—”
“Give it,” he says, reaching up and taking the album from me. He pats the sofa cushion next to him, and I sit.
We’re sitting close enough that our shoulders brush, our thighs touch. We couldn’t get physically closer if we tried. Not unless he sat on my lap.
“You can change your mind anytime,” I remind him as I lay my arm along the back of the couch. I brush the back of his neck with my fingertips, and he shivers. “Just close the book and walk away.”
“I can’t keep running, Tyler. I need to face this. Maybe my memories are worse than the reality, you know? Maybe they’re overexaggerated. It’s possible.”
I scoff. “I doubt that, babe.” I’ve seen the photos. I’ve studied them with a detective’s eye until they’ve become seared into my brain. There are signs of clear neglect. Ian didn’t overexaggerate anything.
Ian stares down at the photo album lying on his lap. “Still, I need to know.”
And then he cracks the front cover. It’s one of those old-style photo albums, the kind with sticky pages covered with clear plastic sheets. There are multiple color photos stuck on each page, mostly faded Polaroids.
The layout is neat and chronological, starting from Ian’s birth. The first few pages are what you’d expect. He’s a newborn, and there are a lot of shots of him wearing sleepers and onesies, or wrapped up tight in receiving blankets. Pictures of him in one of those little baby bathtubs.
There are several photos of Rhonda holding her new baby, beaming like a proud mom. I wonder who took those pictures. A friend, maybe? A relative? I realize I know nothing about the rest of Ian’s biological family, if there is anyone else. When the state took Ian from Rhonda, weren’t there any other family members who could have taken him in? I’m guessing there must not have been anyone since he ended up in the foster care system.
There’s a photo taken a few months later of Rhonda giving Ian a bottle. She looks tired, her long hair limp and dirty. There are dark shadows beneath her eyes.
The next few pages are also unremarkable—Ian sitting on a blanket on the floor playing with blocks, Ian playing with a stuffed animal. From what little we can see of the apartment, it looks pretty bare bones, furnished with old, mismatched and threadbare pieces of furniture that look like they’ve seen better days.
