Cut From the Fold

By Eric Redmon

How far do you have to run to escape your past? Frank Sedrick needed to find out. Sailing single-handed from Newport to the Caribbean in his custom sloop, he thought he was free to pursue new desires, only to find Ensign Tom Nichols of the U.S. Coast Guard hot on his tail. As you read

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Redmon
• Release date: Mar 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087947006

Eric Redmon

Hello, and welcome to my page! I personally love to read and had always wanted to write a book. I have one done now, Cold Silence of Deception, and two in the works. I have been writing for kids, friends, and grandkids for years, but my work here is my first publication. So, what can I tell you? I do live vicariously in my books, but in addition to my life within the pages, I have had an interesting real life so far. Adventurous by nature, optimistic to a fault, I have lived on the edge in many instances. Mountaineering to McKinley, Aconcagua, Rainier, Mt. Washington, sailing the Chesapeake, motorcycle riding, all embraced with passion. Born in Texas, the epicenter of my book, I grew up in New Orleans, and have traveled many places. After finishing Dental School at L.S.U., I did a residency in Oral & Maxillofacial Surgery at Harvard, and upon completion have practiced in Winchester, Virginia ever since. I married one of the heroines of my book, and an interesting side-note is that I wrote of Fe several years before I met her. I am a lifelong romantic who finally found his soul mate. Life is interesting, isn't it? It would be great if you purchased one of my books, and it would be even better if you would kindly leave a review! One thing is for sure, I wrote a book that I would enjoy reading myself, and hope you enjoy it as well. I hope to have more coming your way soon! Wishing you all the best, and Thank You for visiting my page! Also, visit ericredmonauthor.com! Eric

Book preview

One

Marilyn awakened alone on top of the red rose petals that he spread across their bed last evening. Despite the throb of an aching head from the past night’s tequila shots, she still reveled in her great luck, having met a gorgeous young sailor just after arriving in Barbados at her resort. She hoped for excitement but didn’t fathom it might include a hunk with his own sailboat. 

The morning light from the hatch overhead caused her to squint. As she looked back at the varnished wood around her, she quietly murmured, Wow. Only the second day of an incredible vacation! I wonder if he’ll invite me for a cruise too? She’d been to Barbados several times but had never seen luck like this. 

She stretched her long arms and legs during a sleep-deprived yawn and noticed the gentle rise and fall of the sailboat. The sailboat was moving and quietly picking up momentum. Last evening, they hadn’t discussed that he would leave port. In fact, after he led her downstairs for another drink and a tour, there were few words spoken between them at all. 

A big smile flushed her face. Her clothes never had been so quickly discarded for any man. And the physical love she experienced with him was so complete. Where is he, she wondered? I hope he can cook too, I’m starving.

As the ship responded to the wind, she imagined that he intended to surprise her with a day sail in paradise, probably to anchor in a secluded cove and spend the day swimming, sans bathing suits.

In her mid-thirties, Marilyn loved many men in her past. She maintained no illusions that he could be incredible all the time, like he was last night. With her deep brown hair and blue eyes, standing five-foot ten with a sleek curvaceous figure, Marilyn knew she was beyond attractive. Now she had her own dream vacation. It was here, and no one mattered now, but her. 

She had left the rat race of Houston at the end of May after saving some money and finding a last minute cheap flight. Now her autopilot had reached Marilyn time. 

Sure, although not right away, he had eventually turned into quite the gentleman, but she knew how it would end. In a few short days they would part amicably with promises to stay in touch, and she would fly home with an unusually satisfied glow. He would call incessantly after she left: they all did. She might speak to him again, she might not. And oh, the stories she would have to tell her girlfriends. She tried to talk them into coming along on her impulsive trip but was pleased now that there were no takers. If she had brought girl baggage along with her last night, this may have never happened. 

A perfect start. For now, Marilyn felt content to lean back on the soft pillow, hands folded behind her head, squinting as she gazed up at the sunlight pouring through the hatch overhead. Fresh trade winds poured down over her, raising goose bumps on her flawless, soft, silky-white skin. As a chill caused a shudder, she pulled the crisp white sheet over her. It smelled of him. 

How far she’d come in just 24 hours. Marilyn embraced her new destiny, speeding via the wind to some timeless destination. Such a welcome surprise. 

Movement of the ship forced her to sit up, bringing an immediate awareness of sore muscles used last evening during their vigorous love calisthenics. As she reached out to grab the overhead handrail, she peered out the porthole and saw only turquoise blue water moving swiftly by. She would have to leave the cabin soon to calm her stomach which already protested the motion. 

Her pounding head from last night’s tequila didn’t help.

The previous evening, alcohol flowed freely after their chance meeting at a bar close to the dock. He looked cool to her from the get-go. She couldn’t help but notice him as he sat alone. His tanned skin, long, sun-bleached hair, and his indifference towards all other patrons in the bar, including her, made him seem like an island unto himself. A turn on, for sure. Already primed by the unlimited booze, thanks to her one and only first-class flight, she decided, what the hell, and boldly approached Mr. Hunk. 

But the night didn’t start as well as she imagined. Always sure of herself, she was just after some fun. Getting hit on or picked up at any bar had never been a problem for her. So, it was odd when he all but ignored her standing close to him at his table. He didn’t even glance up from his drink. Hell, she even stood so close that he surely felt her body heat. 

This had never happened before, and he wasn’t the only man in the room. Just as she turned away, he tapped her on the arm and spoke, Hey. I wondered what took you so long to come over…

She certainly wasn’t used to that kind of treatment, and her first thought was, What an ass. 

Well? Are you gonna sit, or move on? I’m drinking Tequila if you’re interested.

She bit her tongue, still searching for some hint of a grin or wink but seeing none, she concluded, Okay, I’ll play along. I’ll sit. He can’t get any worse. And… more free booze is fine with me.

How debonair of you, she said as she willed her best smile to appear. As if he had ordained her to sit down, the chair opposite him moved out from under the table, shoved by his foot, as he waved to the bartender for another glass.

Despite half of his bottle of Tequila already gone, he appeared stone-cold sober. 

As she sat, she said, My name’s Marilyn. Do you have one?

They call me, Frank.

She liked the unusual crook in his rare smile. After enough small-talk to finish the bottle of Patron Tequila, it took little else for direct passage to the front berth of his classic looking wooden sailboat moored close by. 

It all happened so quickly. Her Tequila-infused brain screamed, Why not take a chance on this Adonis? 

Soon, he rose to leave, saying, I have some work I need to get done on my sailboat tonight. He added, Follow me to slip #4, if you like. She didn’t remember much after she found his boat, but recalled that he felt phenomenal.

She attempted movement again and this time was able to sit at the side of the berth. Unbeknownst to Marylyn, since sunrise he silently watched her sleeping through the overhead hatch. 

He thought, This one was too easy. And she is one of the best specimens I’ve found. This could be fun for a while.

After donning the same revealing blouse and thong she barely wore last night, she ventured up through the companionway, poking her bed-strewn hair and squinty eyes into a fresh day, wondering what real sailors did for coffee. The beautiful mid-morning Caribbean sky surrounded them; better than her dreams.

As she looked around, she grew concerned. Frank had vanished. The yacht appeared to be sailing itself. She ventured into the cockpit seeing what looked like fresh blood on one of the seats. Undeterred and off-balance as the ship rocked, she grabbed for anything to hold on to, almost knocking herself unconscious on the boom. As she clutched the handrails, she crept forward, balancing the swells while searching for signs of Frank.

Calling out, Frank, she waited for a reply… anything. There was none. Stepping on to the bow, her concern moved towards panic as she thought, Where the hell is my guy? Did he fall over as I sailed on without him? If so, what do I do now? I don’t have a clue how to sail…

As panic spread, she stood next to the genoa sail and yelled, "Frank! Where are you?"

Suddenly a giant fish hurtled out of the water, smashing onto the deck next to her. Marilyn jumped to avoid being attacked by this flopping, riotous fish, pissed off from being cast from its element. She saw a fishing line exiting its mouth connected to a huge hook, exiting the fish’s eye.

From a safe distance, Marilyn followed the thin clear line leading to the top of the mainsail where she found Frank sitting on a seat fixed to the mast. He held the fishing rod linked to the line. Seeing her expression, he appeared to laugh. He was so high, she could barely hear him.

Her eyes agape, she stared as he lowered himself, still laughing. Dropping to the deck, he looked her in the eyes with a cold stare… one that had escaped her vision during the Tequila shots the night before.

She began to tremble as he said, "Now, you need to dress that fish and cook if for my breakfast, and you will do it right. Otherwise, there is no reason for you here." He leaned over to place the expensive-looking rod and reel carefully onto the deck.

A bad feeling washed over Marilyn. As reality hit home, she wondered, Who is this man? She recalled awakening many mornings in the big city of Houston, rolling over to view the previous night’s bad decisions. Marilyn never dreamed that paradise could betray her like this. He was not the person she thought she had shared a berth. In fact, this had all suddenly become a nightmare. Despite the warm morning breeze, goosebumps grew all over her body.

Despite bewilderment from this sudden rude behavior, she responded with a forced smile, Well, good morning to you too, Sunshine! Waiting for a response, she found only silence and no softening of his hard gaze. Panic gripped her spine as she became short of breath. 

As he continued his angry stare, meekly she added, I certainly have enjoyed our time together! I’m dying for some coffee, Frank. Maybe while we sip on some you might show me how to prepare our breakfast? I’ve never skinned a fish before and I don’t even know what type of fish it is.

He turned away as he disconnected his harness from the halyard. Frank didn’t even look at her as he gruffly replied, "It is a bonito. Sarda sarda. Good eating and everyone on this boat has to pull their own weight, or they have no use!"

Frank turned towards Marilyn, his silence and angry stare commanding her to respond.

Her mouth wouldn’t move. Now miles from shore, she was virtually… alone.

Willing the words that might buy time to sort out her precarious situation, Sure... uh… Frank! I’ll get right to it! Marilyn looked at the fish just as it proceeded into its final death throes, causing her to shriek and jump back. 

Then it happened. 

The bonito flipped itself one more useful time, rolling over the side and into the surf, trailing the coveted fishing tackle along with it.

With naïve relief, Marilyn summoned a smile as she searched for strength. She slowly turned to face him.

He said nothing.

Marilyn could make anyone smile. She had a knack. She remained optimistic, thinking, this had to be a joke. He could laugh… couldn’t he? He’d better laugh because there was no place for her to run.

She turned back towards the person who had recently been a handsome, strong, tender, and loving man. Seemingly not the same man who hadn’t said a word since the fish tumbled overboard with the fancy reel. 

As their eyes met, to her relief she discovered a huge smile. With comfort she thought, It had all been a joke!

Then, she spoke, Frank, you devil you! Marilyn reached for his shoulders to hug him. With the sun directly behind him, she squinted to see his arms raise into the air.

One more surprise awaited Marilyn this morning. Her last vision was a large gutting knife, held high over his head with two hands, and her final scream evaporated forever into the beautiful Caribbean morning.

Marilyn was no more.

Two

Earlier, in the spring of that same year, a man stood on the dock in the late afternoon, ready to leave Newport, Rhode Island forever. There was nothing left there for him. Anxious to set sail for the Caribbean, he approached his custom-built sloop, named Hard Tack . His mind reeled in the past that he would soon try to leave. Unfortunately, memories die too slowly.

Born to a family surrounded by financial wealth, his family remained bankrupt of any worthwhile emotions.

Nothing could dampen his urge to leave. Newport left a permanent stain on his soul.

Despite stepping onto his floating oasis, the visions that hastened him away burst from deep within his eyes. From the marina, he could easily see the widow’s walk at the top of the old mansion. The sight of that cold place jarred his memory back to a dark childhood. It was as if the harder he tried to focus only on the work still necessary to shove off, the more vivid came the replay of the sights, sounds and smells of those times, and that room…

The memory never changed for him. How could it? It had been seared into his brain like a branding iron to a cow’s hide, it was so real. The hand; always held tightly over his mouth, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to yell. If he made any noise, there was always a stiff rebuke. When it happened, he could only try to float away until his abuser was done. And each time it happened, he hoped it would be the last. Even if he was suffocated, it would at least be over.

Unconsciousness: also denied. Even that was another thing outside his control. Why couldn’t he have been out cold, or dead? At least then the pain, humiliation, and guilt might have been bearable.

The alcohol-fueled, nervously excited and all-too-familiar out-of-breath voice behind him always spit the same words into his ear just before the pain began, Remember, Bubby, if you let out a peep, or tell anyone about our little adventures, I will kill your mother after I murder you.

When it first began, he wondered if all fathers did these things. He had no reference. Time didn’t exist for him before the abuse started. He couldn’t recall how young he was the first time. In the beginning, he wondered if his mother knew… How could she and not come to his defense?

In retrospect, he wondered how the investigators had missed this part. They seemed to know everything else.

One thing he did know: hope abandoned him. The abuse continued for years and refused to end before fear and hatred enveloped his soul like a cold, dense fog in an endless and inescapable black forest.

People on the outside were clueless. His life, excluding that basement room, would have seemed idyllic to someone looking from the other side of the window of his affluent upbringing. The only view outsiders ever saw was a privileged life paid for by an endless supply of old family money.

Cruising together on the family’s 75-foot motor sailing yacht Ambition during temperate days, by all outward appearances they were wealthy, happy, and appropriately aloof among their similarly endowed friends.

Sworn to secrecy by intimidation, he never spoke about the basement to anyone. There had been a school counselor and even other students within his reach, but his father never made idle threats.

Frank noticed early on that his classmates seemed much happier about going home at the end of the school day. They ran off and happily jumped into the car as he hesitated next to his father’s chauffeur-driven limo. Why were they so happy about going home if they faced what he did?

He never wanted to leave school. It was his constant. At least there he was safe.

Despite having no problem making friends, he would never invite them home with him. He never even tried. His friend’s parents tried for a while to have him come to their homes for birthdays and special events, but it didn’t take too many tries before they stopped asking. His friends always moved on to other kids whose parents would allow them to do things after school, on weekends, or during the summers.

Although the faces of his classmates at the privileged school rarely changed, after the first year they left him to himself.

With age, it became more difficult for him to conceal his life. The physical and emotional pain combined and grew, like deadly bacteria in a petri dish. It would only be a matter of time before the toxic brew erupted.

He’d been told he was good looking, but what stared back at him in the mirror was an image seared by past memory of a pudgy, large, boy-man. Not until he became an adolescent was he able to fend off his father’s physical urges.

Then, only after standing up for himself, was he able to see the handsome young man before the mirror. By the age of sixteen he was six-foot one, with wavy blonde hair and blue eyes.

Years earlier he hoped for a brother or sister that might absorb some of the focus from him. But he also would never wish for any other child to suffer the abuse he felt from both parents. He learned to hate his family early in life.

Darkness approached sooner than expected, perhaps heralding bad weather. As he planned his departure, he already envisioned leaving under reduced sails. Working at a hastened pace, he recalled that all his sailing knowledge came from his upbringing. That was about the only good thing that came from his family.

Frank scanned the looming clouds that threatened to close in the bay. No weather would keep him from departing tonight. As he recalled the childhood abuse he suffered, two faces came to mind as he aggressively coiled the lines into perfect circles on the deck; his father and his grandfather. The two men who were supposed to be there for him but had never been. They both abused him emotionally, but the one that should have been his protector, his father, violated him physically for years.

It was unclear why he stayed in Newport for as long as he did. He lived in his own apartment for the past few years and became independent of his family and self-sufficient. With his parents both dead now, his apartment released and his furniture and few belongings either sold or stowed below, it was now time to leave it all. With their death, he hoped his emotional curse would let him be. His evil family was gone, and the investigators would never prove any connection to him with their murder. There was no physical evidence left behind. No trace.

And there was nothing for him here. There never was. Frank released the last dock line from his boat and left Newport despite the brewing storm.

Three

It took the better part of a week for Frank to sail south and pick up the Intracoastal waterway. This early in the season, it was still cold. Exiting the ocean to the relative safety and comforting calm water went against his grain. He found it painful to suffer through motoring along this boring route, but it was much safer than the risks of bad weather, including the shoals and shallow depths of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. Also, the Gulf Stream was flowing north. Not the direction he wanted to go. Most sailors heading south used the Intracoastal, despite the miles of nautical boredom it provided.

He spent hour after hour dodging pleasure boats and barges. There was no lack of time for his mind to wander. And no distance from Newport was able to block his thoughts about where he was from. He had no idea how far he would have to go to get far enough away. 

As he and Hard Tack jockeyed for position and fell in line, waiting on another bridge to raise for his 50-foot mast, he wondered how different life might have been if he hadn’t been born Franklin Clarence Sedrick, into the Heathcliff Sedrick family.

Only his father called him Franklin. He hated that name, preferring Frank, but his father didn’t care. 

Being born a Sedrick was a thankless and lingering debt. It was as if he’d entered a family designed to hate male offspring. The abuse imposed on him was born long before he entered the world.

His father, Heddy, always tried to gain the love of his own father, the infamous and once flamboyant, Ambrose. Despite being an only child and having no direct descendant with which to compete, Heddy still fell short. Daddy didn’t approve of Heddy, and Frank always wondered, Why?

Paintings of a younger Ambrose, adorning the mansion, were much more flattering than his appearance now. Depictions as a towering, square-jawed, benevolent patriarch surrounded by his adoring family, had given way to a hunched over, bald recluse, crippled with arthritis. The epitome of a man who was angry about everyone and everything.

After Ambrose passed, Mum, actual name Dorothy, lacked the desire or legal rights to undo her husband’s expensive signed and sealed original will. With her future passing, this vindictive document would cede the family home, yacht, and other possessions, not as Heddy’s property, but for his use and upkeep. Only a small portion of the profits from a previously lucrative steamship company were left in a trust fund. The small stipend it generated and paid each month to Heddy, seemed to ignore any semblance of sincere trust. It would prove barely enough money for upkeep and maintenance on the home. The will made no mention of his mother, Maddi. As Frank would find out years later, his grandparents hated her.

Heddy, temporarily rich on paper only, was condemned to live on just enough to exist.

The fait accompli in Ambrose’s will was to forbid Heddy to sell or gain financial benefit from any of the family possessions. Ever.

He had waited for an hour. Second in a long line waiting to cross under once the drawbridge was fully raised, Frank was happy to finally be moving again. Hard Tack had just crossed between the upright spans as he was surprised to hear five short blasts from the bridge tender, indicating that the bridge was about to be lowered again. 

Shit. He had just started through.

Blasting five short bursts from his horn in reply, sending an alert that might prevent the tender from lowering the span, Frank increased his throttle as he ran perilously close to the oblivious boater in front of him. Despite his signal, the bridge continued down as he was underneath. His mast barely cleared. But not the schmuck behind him, who was stopped dead in the water as his mast crumpled.

Looking back, he felt a smile spread across his face. The sensation felt odd because he couldn’t remember the last time. He didn’t know the guy with the crippled boat, but this experience gave him an incredible thrill. At long last it was him… observing pain inflicted on someone else, and it felt good. 

Four

It was another gorgeous day in paradise. Early June. At the outdoor breakfast buffet of their resort in St. Thomas, Tom Nichols looked at his oldest child, ten-year-old Jacob, and asked, Son, would you like to come out with me for a while today?

Jacob’s eyes lit up, focusing on his dad, waiting for what might come next.

I’m taking the Coast Guard boat out for a while today. We can pack a lunch. 

Tom remembered going out with his dad at the same age, shrimping off Charleston, South Carolina all day long. Bitter-sweet memories still.

The Coast Guard boat, Dad?

Yes, son. Do you want to come with me?

All Jacob could do was smile from ear to ear.

The night before, Tom informed his wife, Laurie, that he would make this offer to Jacob. Aware of Tom’s past like she was, it surprised her that he would plan this with their son, but also knew how safe Jacob would be with him. Readily agreeing, she smiled at Jacob and stated, Don’t worry about us girls, we’ll have our own fun together.

On cue, Laurie turned to her daughter and said, Mary, this idea is great news! You and I will have a wonderful day together, just us girls! 

With Mary already distracted, Jacob added, Yeah, Mary. You don’t wanna go with us! You might return smelling fishy! 

Six-year-old Mary responded with a scrunched-up nose to the thought of her having a fish smell.

Jacob finished breakfast first and started tugging at his father’s arm. Only a few minutes later they boarded the boat as the girls waved them off at the dock. Their family was vacationing in St. Thomas before moving from their home in the States. They had used this week to look for housing because of Tom’s transfer to a new assignment with the Marine Safety Detachment of the U.S. Coast Guard at St. Thomas. They allowed him the use of one of their extra Boston Whaler’s while there.

This was so special for Jacob. Not only being able to go on an outing with his dad, but on a Coast Guard boat, to boot! 

He was beside himself. Long before they shoved off, he asked a thousand questions and marveled at the gizmos and hardware that came standard on Coast Guard vessels of any size. 

With fuel tanks full, and a packed lunch for two provided by the resort, they motored out of the dock area slowly, making no wake. Jacob donned a blue cap and sunglasses, like his dad, and despite his small frame, looked very official as they glided away from the Point Pleasant resort pier. 

As Mary tried to tug her mom back towards the resort, Laurie’s eyes proudly followed her men out of the marina. 

Just past the outer buoy, Tom smiled at his son as he shoved the throttles forward. Jacob was amazed how smooth this boat skimmed over even large waves. Within 30 minutes, the powerful engines delivered them between Rata Cay and Honeymoon Beach on St. John. It was a beautiful day.

Tom called out to his son over the sound of the dual Yamaha engines, I think we might circle the island and return to Honeymoon Beach later for lunch. What do you say?

Jacob yelled with a grin, Awesome, Dad!

Tom didn’t expect it would be an issue but knew that they might need this loaned boat for official business at any moment despite his vacation. An ear to the radio was one stipulation of him being able to use it. As they sped along, he heard minor issues being called in over Channel 16, the universal emergency frequency, throughout the morning. So far, there had been no significant calls. 

It was a typically delightful Friday around midday when they anchored off Honeymoon Beach to eat their lunch. Chicken salad sandwiches on a croissant and ice-cold Cokes. Peace, warmth, and beauty from under the shade of the bimini. 

Then, the tranquil vacation day ended as the radio crackled again…

Five

Frank crossed under the last bridge before his exit into the Atlantic. As he passed small boats returning from a day of fishing, he continued towards the ocean. He would soon be free from the monotony of the Intracoastal waterway. The freedom of open water sailing was close again. Three weeks ago, he left Newport and now was venturing out into the warmer waters and constant breezes off Beaufort, North Carolina. 

After making a cup of instant coffee, he placed the polished mahogany boards back into their slots, closing the companionway to prepare for larger waves ahead. Soon he would hoist sails and turn off the diesel engine. 

The beautiful wood on his boat was expertly finished, with no less than 20 coats of marine varnish. He did much of it himself and it was a painstaking process. Although proud of his work, he had seen better, once before. It was on the night of his eighteenth birthday. His grandfather’s rich attorney, Mr. Malcolm,  summoned him that evening to his ornate office. He’d been given no notice of the topic, but had no doubt, whatever it was, it would be presented without an offering of cake and candles.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself standing at the outer door at the appointed time, and it impressed him that the finish on the attorney’s varnished door had the depth of glass. It looked thick enough to swim through. He marveled at how much it must have cost for his grandfather to hire an attorney that owned such an elaborate door. It was his first and would be his last visit there and he had no clue why he had been invited. The timing seemed ironically coincidental; happening on his eighteenth birthday. At least someone wanted to see him that day. Turning the knob as he pushed his way in, he could feel how solid the door was. He walked into the office at the requested time.

He had only met Mr. Malcolm once before, on the day of his grandfather’s funeral. Although still just a child, he remembered the eerie appearance of this tall, pale, bald-headed and sullen man. Dressed in his black suit, black tie and white shirt, he looked more like a funeral director than a lawyer. As he would find, he was both. He would soon learn that the reason for this meeting was for Mr. Malcolm to resurrect and interpret meaning from his grandfather’s life through the intent in his will. 

Growing up there were so many unanswered questions. Many would be brought to light on the night he turned eighteen. Despite the lack of cake, his gift would be delivered with Mr. Malcolm’s initial greeting. 

At the appointed time of 5 p.m., Mr. Malcolm met him at the door and led him into an impressive wood-paneled room, ushering him to a seat at a large, magnificent conference table.

With no small talk, he cut to the chase as if the vault he guarded for so long could no longer be contained, scattering forbidden words past his lips. He confessed, I’ve been waiting for this day since you were born. It gives me great pleasure to inform you that you are rich now, Frank.

Frank recalled looking at him, trying to understand what he had just heard, as Mr. Malcolm eased back into his large, comfortable, leather chair to relish the delight of his client’s grandson. 

Each waited for the other. Frank’s tongue remained frozen as his eyes glanced around the pretentious room filled with ornate, museum-like paintings of old men. 

Then, with no further hesitation, Mr. Malcolm proceeded to unwrap his birthday gift further, as he filled in the blanks to many unasked questions. During the next few hours he would learn much about the level of hate that coursed through his family’s veins. And, by the end of this meeting, he would better understand why it ran through his.

It became crystal clear that Ambrose’s attorney shared his client’s dislike of Frank’s father, Heddy. Therefore, it came as no surprise when the attorney said, Your grandfather gave me the authority to retain private investigators, sparing no expense to gain information.

So, before they would part ways later in the evening, Frank would become the heir of more than just money. After tonight he would walk away with a complete recipe for hate.

The friction between his parents and grandparents was palpable during his childhood. It took hours of details revealed by Mr. Malcolm for him to understand why. Despite the revelations, there would be no release from pain caused by years of physical and emotional abuse by a father who so joyfully degraded him. He learned that night that every ounce of pain he suffered was retribution for something that happened before he was born.

Frank learned that he wasn’t alone. Everyone hated his father. Even Ambrose’s esteemed attorney wasn’t impartial. Mr. Malcolm rattled off countless