I had to start focusing on my time with Carter. Rebuilding things. Letting him in again. I had to get him to trust me. That way he wouldn't call home every hour, so he wouldn't notice a long day trip like this.
I should be scared. What if he's still here? But I'm not scared anymore. I am many things, but I am not fearful. I grip the steering wheel tightly. I had been so focused on finding this place, I didn't even think about what I'd do if I was right. I think at least some part of what Sam told me was true—his brother wanted him gone. The man had to feel like he did at least one thing right, and getting his brother out of town was some sort of action.
I park on the vast green between the barn and the main house. I step out, my shoes crunching against the dry grass that's already several inches taller than when I was last here. The barn catches my attention. I creep towards it with the possibility someone could be on the property. If Sheriff Ridgefield ran into me here, he’d have a fit. When I open the door, the sound of buzzing becomes apparent; I follow it to the dried pool of Sam’s blood and a horde of flies circling it.
The barn door softly creaks behind me and I startle. I hide inside a stall, listening for sounds, my heart beat pulses in my skull as seconds pass without a sound until a horse nickers. I step out, cautiously making my way to the entrance to find Beverly with her head peeking past the threshold of the barn.
“Heeeey girl,” I coo. She huffs as I come close and rub the side of her golden muscular neck. “You look good. Freedom suits you.” The goats are nowhere in eyeshot, so I continue my mission, walking past Beverly towards the house. She follows me, like I’m some warped version of a Disney princess, stopping at the porch steps. The front door is unlocked; the screen door wails in protest as I pull it open, powerless to protect its owner's secrets.
It's exactly as we left it. Almost like we never did. I wonder if he intends to return someday. I walk up the creaky steps to the room, the one that held his psyche, just like a dark corner of his mind. The colorful tapestries and articles still line the walls. There wasn't enough time before to read them all. To digest.
I pull the articles one by one. I observe the pictures of him as a child and his family. He looks different now, but it hurts to see his face. To see a boy who was forgotten up here, alone with a madwoman. I hate that I feel for him, but I can't control it any more than I can control the need to breathe.
There's a black and white picture of him. He's so tiny in it. It's from before the accident. He's on a quaint tree-lined street. The kind kids could play on without worry, where mom could easily step out the front door and call you in for dinner. I didn't really have that. I didn't grow up like most kids. Only the occasional visit to my grandmother allowed me a glimpse of that life. She lived on a street like that. In a house like the one to the left of Sam in the photo. I look closer. 98. I can barely make it out, but because it's stamped in my mind, I know it when I see it.
I shake my head in disbelief. I don't remember him. But then again, I didn't know many of the kids there. Did he remember me? I want to ask him. I want to talk to him. I want answers. But I will get nothing. The realization makes me uneasy. Like this was all destined. Like I have been meant to be here in this spot since I was born. I set the picture down and yank on one of the tapestries, exposing a portion of a clean wall made of dozens of white washed wooden planks. Then another, and another, trying to tear away at the insanity until paper and piles of colorful fabric are crowded around my feet.
I look around the room, once the symbol of a dark and crowded mind, now bright and open. Except for one imperfection. One of the planks looks irregular—shorter and not lined up like the others. I walk up to it and press against it. It wobbles, but it's rather firmly set in. I run to the craft table and grab a pair of scissors, jamming one side into the space between planks and prying it away from the wall. Once I jimmy it, it falls out with ease. In the wall rests a box. It looks old but pretty, like most of the things in this house, made from a tan wood with carvings along the top. I pull it out and rest it on the craft table, opening it up. It's lined with a hunter green felt and inside are dozens of random objects. Jewelry and photos and odds and ends I can't quite place. Then it hits me: It's his trophy box.