Page 7 of A Sister's Secret
Chapter Four
Oliver Thompson's hands were worn and steady, the product of years of shaping wood into art. But that steadiness betrayed him as his phone began vibrating against the workshop's scarred oak table. The call's ID flashed "Sheriff Jim Coleman" on the screen, sending an involuntary shiver down Oliver's spine, a premonition that this was not a social call.
"Oliver," came the sheriff's voice, uncharacteristically shaky. "It's about your sister."
Something in the way the words hung heavily in the air caused Oliver's grip on the phone to tighten, his knuckles whitening as if trying to squeeze out a different reality from the one he feared was about to unfold. It had been a week since the news had hit him, and his sister’s death had become all-consuming in his life.
"Jim?" Oliver asked, a palpable dread settling over him.
There was a pause—a silence too weighty for mere words—before the sheriff replied, "The autopsy is in, Oliver. She took her own life. I'm so sorry."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, a surreal dissonance throwing every sense into chaos as the news clawed its way into Oliver's consciousness. His heart plummeted, crashing through the floorboards beneath his feet. Suicide? The word reverberated through his mind, an echo that refused to fade away.
"Are you sure?" Desperation laced his voice, a futile hope that there had been some mistake. With her quiet strength and wry smile, his sister couldn't be the subject of such a tragic event.
"Oliver, I wish I was wrong. There's… there was a note found by her side." Sheriff Coleman's voice trembled, the lines of duty and friendship blurring painfully. “She shot herself.”
A cold numbness spread through Oliver, his body disconnecting from the present as shock took hold. Why would she do it? Hadn't they shared enough childhood hardships to forge an unbreakable bond? What pain had driven her to such despair?
"Oliver, are you there?" Jim's voice broke through the haze of disbelief.
"Y-yeah, I'm here," he stammered, struggling to anchor himself to the conversation. "It doesn't make sense. She would never do that. She…." His words trailed off, lost in the labyrinth of unanswered questions.
"I can come over, talk this through—" the sheriff offered, the lines of his face etched with sorrow even through the phone.
"No, I… I need a minute, Jim." Oliver's voice was a hollow echo of his usual warmth. "Thanks for letting me know."
"Anything you need, Oliver. I'm here for you and your family."
With the call ended, Oliver stood motionless, the hum of the workshop now a distant murmur against the tide of his thoughts. The tools that once felt like extensions of his hands lay forgotten, their purpose momentarily insignificant compared to the turmoil raging within him.
He could feel the fibers of his being unraveling, each thread a question, a memory, a regret. His sister's laughter, her resilience, the way she could find light in the darkest of times—all these pieces of her clashed violently with the finality of her choice.
"Suicide," he whispered to the empty room, the word a stranger among his thoughts. Oliver's eyes closed, a silent prayer for understanding, strength, and the ability to navigate the storm of grief that threatened to engulf him. He clutched the phone as if it were a lifeline, the only connection to the sister he thought he knew, the sister he now realized he'd have to rediscover in her absence.
Oliver's hands were still trembling as he turned the ignition off, the truck's engine falling silent along with his racing thoughts. He needed guidance, something, or someone to anchor him in the tempest that had upended his world. Travis emerged in his mind—a beacon of wisdom and experience in the small town where everyone knew each other's joys and sorrows.
The walk to Travis's front door felt longer than it was, each step a leaden march through his uncertainty. The crunch of gravel underfoot seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet afternoon, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him.
Travis's house was a reflection of the man himself—unassuming yet resilient. The porch bore the burden of years, its wooden planks groaning softly as Oliver approached. The welcome mat, faded from countless seasons of sun and rain, lay before the door like a tired sentinel. It matched Oliver's mood—worn out by the harsh elements of life. Above him, the branches of an old oak tree swayed, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind that Oliver wished he could grasp.
His hand paused above the doorbell, a brief hesitation born from the dread of verbalizing the pain. It was one thing to know tragedy and another to speak it into existence. But this was Travis, a man who had weathered storms of all kinds, who—as a now retired cop—had stared into the abyss of human despair more times than most could bear.
Summoning the last vestige of his resolve, Oliver pressed the bell, its chime cutting through the silence surrounding the house. As he waited for the door to open, for the face of understanding to greet him, Oliver's heart thumped in his chest—not just with grief, but with the faintest flicker of hope that, in Travis, he might find a path forward through the darkness.
The door swung open, and there stood Travis, the evening light casting a golden hue on his tall, sinewy frame. His grizzled beard was like a bramble of wisdom, each strand seemingly earned through years of service and sorrow. His eyes, sharp and piercing as ever, held the calm of an ancient sea in a storm. With a nod, he stepped aside, the motion an unspoken invitation into his sanctuary.
"Come in, Oliver," Travis said, his voice deep and steady, a testament to countless conversations cushioned by gravitas and grace.
Oliver entered, his body moving mechanically while his mind spun with turmoil. The warmth of the house enveloped him like a gentle embrace, the interior walls adorned with photographs of Travis's past—a silent gallery of proud and painful memories.
"Sit down," Travis gestured toward an old, sturdy sofa that seemed to have provided comfort to many before him. "Tell me what's on your mind."
As Oliver sank into the cushions, the dam within him broke. Words tumbled out, raw and unchecked, painting the bleak picture of his sister's untimely departure from this world. His voice cracked as he recounted the sheriff’s call, his hands animated with confusion and grief. The room felt heavy with the weight of his words, yet not suffocating—Travis’s presence was like the steady hand of a lighthouse keeper on a tempestuous night.
"Trav, I just don't understand it," Oliver managed between breaths, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "We were close… even though we hadn’t seen each other in ten years, we knew one another. She would have told me if something was wrong. She could have come to me. She knew this. Why would she… how could she…?"
Travis listened, his face a bastion of empathy carved from the bedrock of experience. He leaned forward slightly, giving Oliver the unspoken assurance that his pain was heard, his loss acknowledged. There were no interruptions, no platitudes, only the shared silence between two men—one seeking answers, the other offering a shoulder upon which those questions could rest, if only for a moment.