Chapter 1: The Trash
The cardboard box reeked of a nauseating, stagnant decay—a smell David Miller had come to loathe. It was the scent of old paper, mothballs, and expired memories, taking up space in this house that should have been occupied by stacks of cash.
"Hurry up, Mom. I don't have the time to waste all day here," David snapped, tearing a piece of packing tape with his teeth. The sound cracked through the dead silence of the living room like a breaking bone. He glanced at the fake Rolex he’d just bought, his brow furrowed in irritation.
Martha stood by the fireplace, her hands—spotted with age—trembling as she death-gripped a porcelain shepherdess. She was seventy-nine, but in the dim, gray afternoon light, she looked like a dried-out corpse ready to crumble into dust. Wisps of gray hair escaped her bun, making her look utterly pathetic.
"David," she whispered, her voice rasping and broken. "This was your father's favorite. He bought it in Atlantic City. Do you remember?"
David didn't even look up. He was busy shoving heavy encyclopedias into a box marked "DONATE"—a complete sham, of course. His actual plan was to heave the whole load into the trash compactor behind the corner grocery store.
"The old fool has been dead for ten years, Mom. He doesn't care about a broken rock. Put it in the box. Now." There was no negotiation in his tone, only command.
"But... where will it go? My room at the... the new place... is it big enough?"
"It’s spacious. Like a suite," David lied without blinking. He didn't tell her the room at Sunny Meadows was the size of a coffin, barely fitting a twin bed and a bedpan, where turning around was a luxury. He didn't tell her the place permanently smelled of bleach and boiled cabbage. And he certainly didn't tell her it was the state's cheapest option at two grand a month—the only price he was willing to pay.
He needed this house empty immediately. The market was hot. The realtor said if they ripped up the moldy carpets and slapped some cheap paint over the outdated floral wallpaper, he could get $250,000. That was enough to pay off his gambling debts, fix his truck, and maybe even fund a wild weekend in Vegas.
"Please, David. Just one more day," Martha pleaded, shuffling a tiny step closer, her eyes welling with muddy tears. "I can pack faster tomorrow. My joints hurt so much today."
"No," David said, his voice hard as iron. He slammed the box flaps shut, kicking up a cloud of dust. "I’m doing this for your own good. Look at you. You left the gas on last week and almost blew us all to hell. You’re a dangerous element now, Mom. I’m just cleaning up your mess."
He didn't bother looking at her again. He turned and grabbed a stack of old books from the bottom shelf. He didn't give a damn about the titles; he just wanted everything gone. He turned to dump this "trash" into the box, but his grip slipped. The books tumbled to the hardwood floor with a chaotic, deafening clatter.
Among the paperbacks and old magazines, a heavy object hit the floor with a dull thud. It wasn't a book. It was a ledger, bound in cracked black leather, with no title on the spine.
David narrowed his eyes, reaching down. "What is this junk?"
The instant his fingers brushed the cold leather cover, Martha let out a scream. It didn't sound like a dying old woman—it sounded like a cornered guard dog. "Don't touch that!"
She shrieked, lunging across the room with a terrifying speed that sent a jolt of fear through him, snatching the book from his reach.
