Page 41 of Amnesty

“I never heard that,” I said, puzzled.

It was the widow and her husband standing in front of this house (which looked a hell of a lot nicer). Flowers bloomed around their feet, and both were beaming with pride. In her arms was a bundle, unmistakably a baby, wrapped up in a white blanket.

The very top of the baby’s head was the only thing visible, and it had very little hair.

I flipped the photo over, but there was nothing written on it. No name. No date. Nothing.

“If they had a baby, where is it?” Amnesia asked.

“Could be a niece or nephew. The child of whoever took this picture.”

“Maybe,” Amnesia amended. “It’s odd…”

“Everything here is odd, sweetheart.”

She stuck the picture back on the fridge, and we explored the rest of the house.

It was empty. Each room looked the same as the last, tidy, outdated, and tinged with the scent of eccentricity.

I didn’t bother locking up on the way out. Clearly, they weren’t concerned about that kind of thing.

“No one is here,” I told Am. “We should just go back home.”

She wasn’t listening, though. She’d moved to the top step and was staring out over the island.

“Amnesia?”

“This way,” she said, the sound of her voice slightly hollow. She took off, and I scurried to keep up. At the bottom of the stairs, I caught her hand and gave it a squeeze.

She barely glanced back before forging on, away from the house, across the yard. The ground sloped down slightly before leveling off. The sound of the waves hitting against the rocks carried on the wind, the sun shining brightly.

We walked under trees, through tall grass, and even across bare rocks.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she replied and kept walking.

From this side, I didn’t see many boaters, maybe one in the distance. This place felt truly isolated, more than I thought it could. It was like stepping back in time, like this island was a portal to thirty years ago, old and backward even compared to the slow-evolving town of Lake Loch.

“Look.” Amnesia practically wheezed the word, halting so fast I collided into her, grasping her shoulders to keep us both steady.

My eyes followed hers. “Is that a grave?” I asked.

What the hell? This place was fucking weird.

“I think so,” she whispered and started forward.

I sighed insufferably. My girl, ladies and gentlemen. Heading toward a grave instead of running away. We walked up a slight hill. It was covered in trimmed grass and patches of dry dirt.

In the center of a pounded-down mound was a crudely made wooden cross. It had been there a long time; the wood was faded and weathered. It was anchored very well, though, placed there with care.

Just below the cross was a small rectangular concrete slab. It was polished a dark gray and there were a name and dates carved in the top.

John West III

Husband and Best Friend

1959 – 1990

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