Page 43 of Forget Me Not
I run my fingers across the fabric again, thin as tissue, and notice a tag sticking out from the inside. It has the logo of a university bookstore—but there’s something else there, too. Some kind of bleeding black ink staining the satin.
I flip the tag over to find a set of initials written in Sharpie on the back.
KAP.
I stare at the letters, little black veins branching off from where the pen bled, as I try to figure out what they could mean. I don’t recognize them from anywhere, I don’t recall seeing them anywhere in the diary, so I reach for my pocket, grabbing my phone and opening the camera before taking a picture of the tag and deciding I’ll have to dig into it later.
I place the sweatshirt off to the side, directing my attention back to the bag as I eye the other things nestled inside. There’s an old leather wallet, a white towel, and a thick brown folder stuffed fullof files. It’s an odd collection of items, but I decide to start with the folder first, so I pull it out and flip the flap open, eyeing the papers tucked neatly inside. Immediately, I recognize it as the deed to the property, the address I now know to be Galloway Farm… but after skimming the first few pages, I realize I can’t find Mitchell’s name anywhere.
Instead, it appears to be the deed frombeforeit came into Mitchell’s hands. The deed between the previous owners.
I stare at the document, trying to come up with an explanation that never arrives. Then I place the folder to the side and reach next for the wallet. The leather is smooth and soft and I flip it open to find an old driver’s license tucked inside. The ink is faded, the card expired back in the eighties, but then I notice the name printed at the top.
A name I came across when I first started my search, ignorant to where it all would lead.
A name I just saw on the deed a few seconds ago.
This license belongs to Steven Montague, the man who sold the land to Mitchell. The last owner of Galloway Farm.
I stare at the man’s picture, trying to work out if I recognize him at all. He looks young in his license, fair-haired and fragile. Probably somewhere in his late twenties and hovering around 130 pounds.
I grab my phone again, snapping a picture of the license before setting it to the side. Then I reach for the towel, finally, the very last item. Wondering if this will somehow provide any clarity but not feeling confident it actually will. So far, everything I’ve found has only led to more questions, but still, I lift it from the bag and am immediately thrown off by its unexpected weight. It feels like I’m holding at least five pounds, way too heavy for something like this… and then I realize the towel isn’t folded up like the sweatshirt was. A neat, perfect, tidy little square.
Instead, it’s crumpled into a ball like there’s something inside it. Something heavy and hard, wrapped like a present.
Something I’m suddenly not sure I want to open.
I look down at the wad in my hands, forcing myself to take a long breath before I start to slowly unwind. It feels like undoing a bandage covering some deep, deadly wound. My stomach clenched tight as I prepare myself for the horrors that could be hidden beneath.
I remove the last layer and exhale slowly, silently studying the gun in my lap.
I don’t feel much at first, an eerie numbness as I register the feeling of cold steel on my thigh. For a few seconds, I simply stare at the weapon, not sure what to do, when a noise from outside grabs my attention. It’s a subtle sound, the high-pitched whistle of rusted brakes, and I twist around fast, snapped from my trance as my eyes rush to the window. My palms suddenly slick with sweat.
I place the gun on the ground before standing up slowly, trying to keep low as I make my way to the glass. Then I peer outside, that familiar feeling of fear burrowing into my chest when I see Mitchell’s truck parked just below.
CHAPTER 29
I sprint back toward the bed, suddenly aware of how heavy my steps sound as I hear the front door creak open downstairs, the bones of the house shaking as it shuts.
I stare down at the gun on the floor, my mind pulled in too many directions. There isn’t enough time to think through my options so I just start throwing things back into the bag, attempting to put it all back where I found it. I stuff the folder in first, followed by the wallet, then the sweatshirt. I grab the towel next, ready to fold it around the gun… but then I stop, looking back down at the weapon on the floor. Listening to Mitchell walking around downstairs and suddenly feeling so exposed.
I know I shouldn’t do it, I shouldn’t even be in this house at all, but at the same time, I suddenly can’t stomach the thought of being on this property completely defenseless, especially considering what I just found.
I think of Liam’s words again, that very first day as we sat beneath the trees.
I guess you can say they’re protective of their privacy.
I wonder now, for the very first time, what exactly it is Mitchell is trying to protect—and how far he might go to protect it.
I decide, in a flash, that I need a way to protect myself, too, so before I can bother to think through the consequences, to fully comprehend what exactly I’m doing, I wrap up the towel and toss it back in the bag before shoving the gun in my back pocket.
Then I rezip the bag, stuffing it into the floor and silently sliding the boards back into place.
I stand up and glance around the room now, everything appearing just as I found it. Then I creep into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind me as the weight of the gun sits heavy on my hip. I slink over to the top of the stairs, listening intently as I recognize the rush of a running faucet. The opening of a cabinet, the clinking of glass. It sounds like Mitchell is in the kitchen getting himself water so I take the opportunity to descend the stairs slowly, trying to remember the squeaky boards from my climb up and hoping I don’t step on one now.
Halfway down, I chance a glance over the railing, peering into the hallway and craning my neck to look into the living room. Marcia is still asleep in her chair and I start to lower myself further, my eyes darting between the hall and door as I attempt to gauge both distance and time.
I’m five stairsteps away, only a handful of feet. I could make it outside in less than ten seconds if I bolted out now… but Mitchell could come out of the kitchen at any time. He could round the corner to see me in his home, my hand reaching fast for the knob.
