Chapter 1
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Alexia’s POV
I watch them coffin lower into the grave, unable to accept that my father would ever do something like this to himself without a very good reason. Suicide is something I’ve come to terms with after losing my mother, but this time it feels completely wrong. She went quietly with pills, something simple and almost gentle in its finality. My father, though? That’s different.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to push away the image of him in the prison morgue. They warned me that seeing his body wouldn’t be easy, but I insisted anyway. They were right.
He was unrecognizable, burned so badly that it’s hard to believe it’s really him. There has to be a reason behind it all. Something must’ve happened to drive him to this, or perhaps something was done to him.
The prison’s sending me all of his belongings, and I hope those items will finally give me the answers I desperately need. He should never have been locked up in the first place. He swore to me that it was someone else’s doing, some calculated plan to get to him and destroy his life.
Burned to death. No one in their right mind would choose that as a way to end things. At this point I’ve got nothing left to live for except the hunt for the truth. I’ll chase it down no matter what it takes. I don’t care if I have to die in the process. I’ll find out what really happened to him.
Turning away from the grave, I walk off with a silent promise to my father that I’ll uncover the truth, no matter how long it takes or how dangerous it becomes.
When I climb the steps to the small house we once shared, I notice a plain box sitting right there by the door. I pick it up and carry it inside, recognizing it immediately as the package from the prison containing all of his personal effects. There has to be something in here that will explain everything.
I begin opening the box and carefully pull things out one by one. There are old photos of me as a child, pictures of him smiling in better days, and various small items from his life. None of it makes sense.
Why would he burn himself alive? Either he didn’t do it and they’re covering up a murder, or he was carrying something so dangerous that he felt he needed to destroy it completely. But if that’s the case, why not just burn the object itself instead of his own body?
I shove the box aside in frustration and stop short when something catches my eye. In several of the later photos, some of his tattoos have been blacked out. When did he do that? I grab the pictures and study them more closely.
The longer he’s been in prison, the more tattoos he’s covered over. Why would he go to the trouble of hiding parts of his own ink like that?
I rush to his old room and start digging through everything he’s left behind. He’s always kept reference photos of his tattoos, so I pull open the cupboard and grab the stack of pictures he’s stored there. As I sort through them, a small note slips out from the bottom and flutters to the floor.
Never show anyone all the tattoos, not until they’re completed. Trust no one. Refuse to let the tattoo artist take pictures. Tell them only when the entire work is completed.
I pick up the note and read it again, my heart beating faster. Then I grab the rest of the photos and spread them out across the bed. My father has always told me that he had to get these tattoos, but he’s never explained why, only that it’s something he needs to do. Now I wonder if this collection of ink is exactly what led to his death.
There’s only one way to find out. Whoever’s been after him clearly knows about the tattoos, so maybe if I start following in his footsteps I can draw them out and discover who is really responsible.
I shuffle through the photos until I find one of the designs meant for the thigh. That seems like the best place to begin. I arrange the pictures side by side and realize they’re all meant to connect into one larger design that covers almost his entire body. Only the neck and shoulders look like they don’t belong to him in the same way.
Grabbing the photo of the thigh piece, I stand up and reach for my phone. I search for the best local tattoo shop and start walking in that direction without hesitation.
I’m going to get answers about my father’s death and about what these tattoos really mean. I’ll finish what he’s started, no matter where it leads me.
