Next, I move to Kio’s room and go through the same motions, faster and more maniacally, wanting to hurry and get through the motions while desperately hoping nothing turns up.
I toss out all the contents from his drawers.
It can’t be any of them.
I strip his bed and push up his mattress.
It can’t.
I empty all his pockets.
I won’t be able to stand it.
I shake out his boot—
—a knife and a folded piece of paper plops out, landing on my curled toes.
No.
I open it.
Kio. No.
Shaking my head, through blurry tears, I read all the details of what appears to be an assignment.
Not for my father, but likely the victim that was supposed to get killed instead of him.