Page 40 of Amnesty

No one knew it, but I’d brought some heat. The cool metal of the gun was actually reassuring against the small of my back, tucked into my jeans as a promise of safety.

I’d use it. I wouldn’t regret it either.

The floorboards creaked under foot. The house smelled slightly stale but also of a hint of lemon. The chemical kind, the kind in cleaning supplies.

The house wasn’t very large, but it wasn’t cramped either.

The living room was off to our left. The hallway extended past, heading toward the back of the house, where I could see a partial view of a white refrigerator and the metal legs of a chair pushed up to a kitchen table.

“Hello?” Amnesia called out. Her voice made my shoulders stiffen. “Is anyone here?”

The sound of silence echoed back, that and the blowing wind that made the house groan.

“This place needs a serious makeover,” Amnesia said, gazing around at the old furnishings. Everything was wooden, the couch had flowers on it, and the TV actually had an antenna. I wondered if it even worked.

“This place would make a good set for a horror movie.” I noted.

“It’s clean, though,” Amnesia said, moving through the living room and passing beneath the archway that led into the kitchen. “Like the widow cared about keeping it tidy.”

“Maybe she was bored in between kidnapping,” I deadpanned.

“That would be funny if it wasn’t likely true.”

The kitchen had a white farmhouse sink, old wooden cabinetry, and ugly green countertops.

“Look at this,” Amnesia said, letting go of my hand and going to the old-school fridge. “There are pictures.”

The front of the appliance looked a lot like everyone else’s. Littered with photographs and magnets displaying vacation spots. There was one for Boston, one for Lake Loch, and even one for California.

There was also a bottle opener magnet and a memo notepad with one single word scrawled across it.

“Looks like she’s out of milk.” I noted, pointing to the paper.

Amnesia didn’t care about the magnets or even the grocery list. She stared intently at the old, almost yellowing photographs taped to the front.

“Do you think this was her husband?” she asked, fingering the edge of one of the Polaroids.

My chest grazed her shoulders and back when I peered over her at the picture. It was of a man and woman. They were posing for the camera, large smiles on their faces. The man was about a head taller than the woman, dressed in a red flannel shirt and khaki pants with boots. He was holding up a huge fish on a line, clearly proud of his catch.

He had dark, short hair, was clean shaven, and was wide with broad shoulders.

“I heard he spent some time in the army before they moved here,” I said.

“She was pretty,” Amnesia noted, pointing at a young Widow West.

I made a sound. Maybe she was. I couldn’t see past the shitty things she’d done, though. Her hair was long just like it was now, but instead of gray, it was a light-brown shade. She was thin, but not as thin as she was now. Her eyes were the most different. In this picture, she had the eyes of a woman in love. A happy woman, a woman that still had her sanity.

Her eyes didn’t look like that today.

There was another image of the couple standing in front of a Christmas tree, the man wearing a Santa hat and red pants. And another of them dressed up, her in a white lace dress and him in a suit.

“This must be their wedding day,” Amnesia murmured.

“Look at this one,” I said, leaning down to the photograph that was stuck toward the bottom of the fridge, almost as if it had slid down, but no one bothered to fix it.

I pulled it off the fridge completely, straightened, and held it out in front of Am, leaning over her shoulder to look at it with her.

“They had a baby?” Amnesia asked, surprise making her voice rise.

---