Page 30 of Forget Me Not

My hands are shaking as I reach my arms out, lifting the duffel from its hollowed spot in the floor.

There are clumps of gray grime clinging to the fabric, the musty smell making me stifle a sneeze.

Then I pull it onto my lap, the tips of my fingers grazing the surface before reaching for the zipper and yanking it open.

I’m terrified to learn what might be in here, bracing myself to find more of Natalie’s things—clothes I might recognize or, God forbid, the remains of her body that have yet to be found—but instead, the word BERKELEY appears from between the two lips and I twist my head, eyeing an old sweatshirt folded on top.

I touch the fabric, faded blue cotton with the collegiate name stitched in white thread. Then I feel a shiver travel down the length of my spine as I think back to one of Marcia’s earliest entries.

This is the sweatshirt she found in the camper, the one she wrapped around her shoulders as she and Mitchell lay in the dark.

I pick it up now, rubbing the cotton between my fingers.

The strangest feeling washing over me like I had actually been in there with them, like I had physically been in that car.

It feels suddenly surreal, the idea of Marcia’s words on the page actually existing in real life; this thing in my hands being the exact same thing she held forty-one years ago.

The same thing I read about my first night here.

It’s like a part of me hadn’t been convinced of the diary’s truth before, those pages a portal to some strange, separate world, but just like finding Lily’s name scratched in the desk, discovering the location of Marcia’s childhood home, this old sweatshirt now clutched in my hands feels like more irrefutable proof that her recollections are actually real.

That the events in those pages really did happen.

I drape the sweatshirt across my lap and unfold it slowly, the cloth smelling like dust and decay. Then I think of the diary again, Marcia describing the way she tried to stitch Mitchell together piece by piece.

Not all that different from what I’m doing right now.

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 full of 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 from before it 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.