Page 40 of The Golden Spoon
Lightning throws a patch of light across the room, and I take the moment to orient myself. My eyes land on a carved wood desk before the room goes dark again. I move in that direction and hit my toe on the edge of something hard. The glass of scotch falls from my hand onto the floor, shattering.
“Fuck!”
I wave my hands out in front of me, looking for the desk until my fingers find the smooth edge of it. I fumble for the pull on the drawer, yank it open and feel around inside for something resembling a candle, a flashlight, anything useful to see with. My hand catches on the side of something sharp, and I jerk it back from the desk, dragging the drawer all the way out of its track. There is a powerful clatter as the drawer hits the floor.
“Fuck! Fucking fuck! Ow!”
I feel wetness oozing from where the pain is and suck the side of my hand. I can taste the blood but not see it, a strange sensation. I grope for something to wrap it with.
Another strong flash illuminates the fireplace next to me, and I see a tall canister of long, fat-tipped matches on the floor next to the grate.Of course!How stupid not to think of it earlier. I lunge for them as the light flickers away. My hands close around the canister, and I pull out a match, striking it several times on the inside of the fireplace. I am rewarded by a sizzle and a tiny flame, enough to see a couple of feet in any direction. I guide myself to the wood bin and begin to build a fire as drips of dark blood from my hand spatter across the hearth. I snatch a piece of newspaper from the tinderbox and twist it around my hand as a bandage, then crumple up a few more sheets and place them in the cracks of the logs. I dab the lit match into the paper, blowing into theflames until they catch on the wood. The fire finally takes hold, and the room around me brightens.
I light another match, tucking the canister under my arm, and go back to the desk to clean up my mess. The contents of the drawer have been scattered across the floor next to it, including a letter opener with a smear of my blood across it. My hand throbs in response. I drop to my knees and, holding the empty drawer like a basket, begin to gather the fallen objects. I pick up a magnifying glass, a selection of folded maps, and an array of heavy pens. I slide one into my pocket for future use.
I raise the drawer to its empty slot and start to line it up with the wooden guides. It catches and slides into place. But as I push it in, something inside catches on it and stops it from going flush with the others. I pull the drawer back out and set it on the ground. I strike a fireplace match, moving it in front of the empty socket. A large paper envelope is taped to the far back of the inside of the desk. It’s twisted up in the corner where the drawer snagged at it—probably came loose when I yanked the drawer out of place. I stick my arm back into the cavity and pry it free. It’s a flat parcel, light as a feather.
I blow out the match and bring the envelope back to the fireplace. Now that the light is better, I can see it’s made of faded yellow paper and bound together in the back by twine. I study the envelope, turning it over in the firelight. Its corners are winged with tape so old it’s petrified, crumbling off in flakes when I touch it.
A roll of thunder rumbles through the house as I unwind the twine. Two thin pieces of cardboard hold in place a single pristine document. I read it, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, and as I do, something horrifying and wonderful clicks into place.
HANNAH
Stella and I are alone in the kitchen. I sit on the floor in the corner, my knees tucked up inside my sweater. Stella sits opposite me, leaning against the kitchen counter. Neither of us has spoken for an extraordinarily long time. We’ve gone through way too much today. I wish I hadn’t followed the others into the tent. I didn’t need to see him like that. I shudder to think of Archie’s face. Every time I close my eyes he is there, dangling above me. His mouth open in a silent scream. I know I won’t be able to sleep soundly for a very long time. Stella looks shell-shocked as well.
“I wish someone would move him,” I say finally. “I don’t like thinking of him like that.”
“I know. But the police will be here soon. I’m sure they will want to see him,” she says, wincing.
We go quiet again, listening to the rain pound against the outer wall of the kitchen. My stomach is empty and sour.
“Hannah, I should have asked earlier. But how are you?” Stella’s face is full of concern. “Are you okay?”
I try to brush the question off with a laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out as a short sob.
“I know,” Stella whispers, her eyes searching mine.
I feel nauseous. “What do you mean?”
“About you and Archie. I saw you leaving the woods the other night.” I jerk my head up at her, surprised. I had thought we’d done such a good job of being secret. I hadn’t even considered anyone had been watching. I’m relieved that is all she saw. Even now, the humiliation of Archie’s deception tugs at me. I pull my sweatshirt farther down my calves.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Stella asks. I am paralyzed, unable to respond. Can I trust her enough to tell her? I think of what happened with Archie, how I let myself get taken in by his stupid lies and empty promises. It fills me with so much shame I can hardly breathe. I want to push her away and run all the way home to Eden Lake.
A violent crack of thunder rattles the kitchen. The overhead lights buzz loudly, going brighter and then fading out completely, plunging the kitchen into darkness. We sit there with only the noises of the storm—the howling of the wind and chaotic tapping of the rain against the small kitchen windows. The darkness makes me feel like I am alone floating in space, like my body doesn’t even exist anymore. Like I am dead.
I start to cry. It is silent at first, but it builds until my body is racked by sobs and I can no longer keep it inside and I am howling. In the pitch-black, Stella’s hand finds my shoulder. I resist at first but give in, letting her pull me toward her in a hug. I can’t handle it all on my own any longer. The secrets Archie wanted me to keep are making me sick. Now that he’s dead, I realize I have no reason to fear his retribution anymore. He can’t help me or hurt me.Bake Week, Archie, it’s all over.
“He’d promised to help me. But it was all just so he could sleep with me. I still can’t believe he would go to all that trouble. I feel so, so stupid.” I wipe my nose with my sleeve. As she pets my head, I tell Stella about Archie, about how he’d promised me that I was going to be famous, how he’d told me he was going to take me to LA with him, to make me into a celebrity baker.
Stella’s voice is filled with disgust. “You have to know that none of this is your fault, Hannah. That kind of man, they just prey on whoever.”
I know she is right, but I still feel a pang of sadness. Even now after everything, I still want what we had to be special. I think of his fingers brushing against my cheek in the woods and shiver. I wish that his interest in me had been genuine, different from any that may have come before.
“You know, I had something similar happen,” Stella says. I wish I could see her face.
“You did?”
“Yes, that’s why I was so worried about you. I could see that Archie was the same as—”
Footsteps echo through the hallway, and Stella goes silent.
