Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 98: Welfare

Matthew

I think about my last conversation with Charles.

When I asked him why Evelyn hated Sarah, he refused to give me a straight answer. He denied it was true. But I know something is definitely up with her. Sarah is not imagining it and neither am I. I wonder if it has anything to do with Rodrigo.

I left the house and told Sarah that I was going to work, but I fully intended to see that couple, Serena and Blake. I need to know the truth about Sarah’s kidnapping and it seems like only the kidnappers themselves will give me real answers.

I go to Charles’s house so we can go together.

Charles opens the door as if he had been waiting for me this whole time. His hair is disheveled, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

"Matthew, you made it," he says.

"Let’s go," I say.

Charles’s expression darkens. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Why not? Don’t you want to know what really happened to Sarah?" I feel my frustration rising. Everyone seems intent on burying the truth, but I can’t let it go. "Sarah deserves answers."

Charles sighs heavily, leaning against the wall. "Alright."

Five minutes later, we are in Charles’s car, heading toward the farmhouse where Blake and Serena supposedly live.

The road out of town feels long and winding. Charles is quiet, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. I watch the trees blur past the window, trying to hold onto my nerves.

The road turns to gravel. We pass a rusted gate and drive up a winding path flanked by dry, overgrown fields. At the top of a hill, we see the house. It is weathered and gray, its windows half-covered by old curtains. There’s a truck parked out front and a dog barking somewhere in the distance.

Charles cuts the engine.

We walk up the creaking porch steps together. Charles knocks.

A long silence. Then the door creaks open.

Serena stands on the doorway. She is tall and slender, her long hair is long and tangled, and her clothes are old and faded. Her face is pale and drawn with lots of wrinkles.

"The fuck do you want?" she barks.

"I am Matthew. And this is Charles," I say, not at all deterred by her unfriendliness.

Serena’s eyes flick between us, her expression sour and unreadable. Behind her, I can see a living room that’s cluttered with empty bottles and magazines. "Are you from the IRS?" she barks again.

"No, ma’am," I say quickly, forcing a more official tone into my voice. "We’re from the county welfare office. Just doing routine follow-ups on... recipients in the area."

Charles shoots me a surprised look but quickly composes himself.

Serena’s face twists into something like a snarl. "Welfare office? Well it’s about damn time someone showed up." She steps back, waving us in with a bony hand. "Check’s been late three weeks now. How’m I supposed to pay the electric?"

We step inside, and the smell hits me immediately. Stale cigarettes, unwashed dishes, and something else I can’t identify. The living room is worse than it appeared from the doorway. Newspapers are stacked in uneven piles, ashtrays overflow on every surface, and the couch has a permanent depression in its middle.

Charles gives me a subtle nod, impressed by my quick thinking.

"Sit if you want," Serena says, clearing some magazines from a threadbare armchair. "Though I don’t know why you need to come all the way out here when you could’ve just mailed the damn check." frёewebnoѵēl.com

"Where is Blake?" I ask.

She narrows her eyes at me. "Why’d you wanna know?"

"He lives here too, doesn’t he?" I ask.

"I haven’t seen that bastard since he went to prison two years ago," she snaps.

"I see," Charles murmurs.

Serena shuffles over to a cabinet in the corner and pulls out a dusty bottle of amber liquid. "Y’all want a drink? Got some Wild Turkey. Ain’t the fancy stuff, but it burns good going down."

"No, thank you," I reply quickly, noticing the label is partially torn and the liquid inside looks suspiciously darker than proper bourbon should.

"Suit yourselves. More for me." She unscrews the cap and takes a long swig directly from the bottle, not bothering with a glass. Her throat works as she gulps it down, and when she finally lowers the bottle, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Damn welfare people, coming to my house, judging me."

I exchange a glance with Charles as Serena drops heavily onto the couch, the bottle clutched between her knobby fingers. She takes another long pull.

"We’re not here to judge," I say carefully. "We just need to ask you about—"

"About what?" she interrupts, her words already slightly slurred. "About how I’m living? About how that son of a bitch Blake left me with nothing but debt?" She drinks again, and I notice her hands are trembling.

"Why did he go to prison?" I ask.

"Fucking armed robber," Serena says, taking another swig.

"I was just wondering...has Blake ever been involved with a kidnapping charge?" I ask slowly, never taking my eyes off her.

Serena freezes mid-swig.

The bottle halts just inches from her lips, her bloodshot eyes narrowing with suspicion. The silence that follows feels thick, almost tangible, like the room is holding its breath right along with us.

"You ain’t welfare officers," she mutters, her voice low and suddenly sober. "Ain’t nobody from the county ask questions like that."

"It is important for us to know his past criminal history," Charles quickly adds.

"I know nothin’ about no kidnapping," she snarls.

"Are you sure?" I press.

"You need to leave. Both of you," she says, her eyes hard.

Serena’s sudden shift in tone puts me on edge, but I don’t move. Neither does Charles.

"We’re not here to hurt you," I say slowly, calmly.

"Leave...now. Or I am calling the cops," she says.

I stand up. "Alright. Thank you for your time," I say and motion Charles toward the door.

Charles follows me to the door without another word, but I can feel his tension buzzing just beneath the surface. The wooden boards creak beneath our feet as we step out onto the porch. Behind us, the door slams shut with a force that rattles the frame.

We don’t speak until we’re back in the car, the engine humming softly as Charles pulls back onto the gravel road.

"Well," he mutters, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, "what now?"

"I am going to see Blake in prison," I declare.