BRETT WYNWOOD AND HIS FAMILY OCCUPIED THE HOME UNTIL 2005, WHEN HURRICANE KATRINA CAUSED EXTENSIVE DAMAGE TO THE PROPERTY. THE FAMILY WAS FORCED TO ABANDON THE HOME, AND IT SAT UNTOUCHED FOR SEVERAL YEARS BEFORE RENOVATIONS BEGAN. THE ENTIRE HOUSE WAS GUTTED AND REBUILT, WITH ONLY PORTIONS OF THE ORIGINAL OUTER WALLS AND ROOF SALVAGED.

IN 2011, THE WYNWOOD FAMILY MOVED BACK INTO THEIR HOME. DURING THE UNVEILING, BRETT WYNWOOD ANNOUNCED THE HOME HAD BEEN GIVEN A NEW NAME: “JAMAIS JAMAIS.”

WHEN ASKED WHY HE CHOSE THE FRENCH TRANSLATION OF NEVER NEVER, HE SAYS HIS DAUGHTER, FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD CHARLIZE WYNWOOD, ACTUALLY DECIDED ON THE NAME. “SHE SAYS IT’S AN HOMAGE TO FAMILY HISTORY. NEVER FORGET THOSE WHO PAVED THE WAY BEFORE YOU. NEVER STOP TRYING TO BETTER THE WORLD FOR THOSE WHO WILL INHABIT IT AFTER YOU.”

THE WYNWOOD FAMILY OCCUPIED THE HOME UNTIL 2013, WHEN IT WENT INTO FORECLOSURE FOLLOWING AN INVESTIGATION INTO WYNWOOD-NASH FINANCIAL GROUP. THE HOME WAS SOLD IN AUCTION IN LATE 2013 TO AN ANONYMOUS BIDDER.

I add the page to my favorites in my phone and make a note of the article. I found it after I pulled up to the property—right up to the locked gate.

The height of the gate is impressive, as if it’s letting visitors know that the people beyond this gate are mightier than the people who are not.

I wonder if that’s how Charlie’s father felt living here. I wonder how mighty he felt when someone else took ownership of the property that’s been in his family for generations.

The property is located at the end of an isolated road, as if the road belongs to the gate, too. After attempting to find a way around or through the gate, I conclude that there isn’t one. It’s dark now, so I could be missing a path or an alternate entrance. I’m not even sure why I want past the gate, but I can’t help but feel like the pictures of this property are clues.

Considering I’m wanted for questioning, it’s probably best if I don’t drive around any more than I have to tonight, so I decide to stay here until morning. I turn off my car. If I’m going to be worth anything tomorrow, I need to try and get at least a few hours of sleep.

I lean my seat back, close my eyes and wonder if I’m going to dream tonight. I don’t even know what I would dream about. I can’t dream if I don’t sleep, and I have a feeling falling asleep tonight is going to be impossible.

My eyes flick back open with that thought.

The video.

In one of my letters, I mentioned falling asleep to a video of Charlie sleeping. I search my phone until I find it. I press play and wait to hear Charlie’s voice for the first time.

Chapter 14: Charlie

More sleeping.

Not because of pills this time. I pretended to swallow them and kept them in my cheek. She stayed so long they were starting to dissolve. As soon as the door closed behind her, I spit them into my hand.

No more drowsiness. I need to be clear of mind.

I slept of my own accord and had more dreams earlier. Dreams of the same guy as in the first dream. Or should I say the first memory? In my dream, the guy was leading me through a dirty street. He wasn’t looking at me, he was looking ahead, his whole body pulling forward like some invisible force had hold of him. In his left hand was a camera. He stopped suddenly and looked across the street. I followed his gaze.

“There,” he said. “Look.”

But I didn’t want to look. I turned my back on what he was seeing, looked at a wall instead. Then all of a sudden, his hand was no longer in mine. I turned and watched him cross the street and approach a woman sitting cross-legged against a wall. In her arms she cradled a tiny baby wrapped in a woolen blanket. The guy crouched down in front of her. They spoke for a long time. He handed her something and she smiled. When he stood up, the baby started to cry. That’s when he snapped the picture.

I could still see her face when I woke up, but it wasn’t a real-life image, it was a photo. The one he took. A ragged mother with knotted hair, staring down at her infant, his tiny mouth open in a scream, their backdrop the chipped paint of a bright blue door.

When the dream was over, I wasn’t sad like last time. I wanted to meet the boy who documented suffering in such vivid color.

I lie awake most of what I assume is the night. She returns with breakfast.

“You again,” I say. “Never a day off…or an hour.”

“Yup,” she says. “We’re understaffed, so I’m working doubles. Eat.”

“Not hungry.”

She offers me the cup of pills. I don’t take them.

“I want to see a doctor,” I say.

“The doctor is very busy today. I can make an appointment for you. He can probably see you sometime next week.”

“No. I want to see a doctor today. I want to know what medication you’re giving me and I want to know why I’m here.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen anything but bored friendliness on her face. She leans forward, and I can smell the coffee on her breath. “Don’t be a brat,” she hisses. “You don’t get to make demands here, do you understand me?” She shoves the pills at me.

“I’m not taking those until a doctor tells me why I am,” I say, nodding toward the cup. “Do you understand me?”

I think she’s going to hit me. My hand feels for the piece of pipe under my pillow. The muscles in my shoulders and back tense, the balls of my feet press down on the tile. I am ready to spring if I need to. But the nurse turns, inserts her key into the door, and is gone. I hear the click of the lock, and then I’m alone again.