Page 31 of Forget Me Not

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.

He would know I was upstairs, rooting through his things while he was away.

I’m still trying to work up the nerve to move when the groan of old wood erupts from the hallway as Mitchell comes ambling out of the kitchen, mere feet below where I now stand.

I recoil, pressing my body against the wall and grateful I hadn’t chosen that moment to run.

He doesn’t look my way; instead, I listen as he heads into the living room before chancing a glance over the railing again.

He’s hovering over Marcia now, his fingers reaching for her braid and twisting a few strands of her hair in his hands.

She looks so small like that, her fragile body crumpled beneath him like a sapling crushed beneath the sole of a shoe, and I wonder what he’s about to do next until he seems to notice something on her neck, his eyes squinting as he twists his head.

He drops the braid, now reaching for a spot beneath her jaw. Then he holds his finger there like he’s looking for a pulse before removing it and bringing his hand to his nose.

I continue to stare, not understanding what he’s doing until I feel a twist of something in my chest—comprehension, fear—as I look down at my own hand, the leafy residue from when I brushed my fingers into the base of her mug.

I had touched Marcia’s neck immediately after and I wonder now if some of it had rubbed off on her skin, lingering little scraps that Mitchell now sees.

He’s probably wondering where they came from, how they got there when Marcia was asleep the entire time he was gone.

I push myself back against the wall and pinch my eyes shut, my heart hammering hard in my throat.

Mitchell could start searching the house now, turn the corner into the hall to find me hiding on the middle of the stairs.

I wonder if I could make it into the guest room, conceal myself in the closet or something, and I’m about to turn around and attempt to hide when my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket, the sound of it deafening in the silence of the house.

I reach for it quickly, pulling it out and jamming the silencer on the side. Ryan is calling and I cuss under my breath as I remember what Liam said about the modem in the main house.

I have plenty of signal in here, enough for a call to actually come through, and now I can hear Mitchell start toward the stairs and I know he must have heard it, too.

I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing myself for him to round the corner when a new sound emerges on the porch. It’s footsteps, unmistakably, and I open my eyes just as the front door bursts open beneath me.

“Hey, it’s getting ready to storm.”

It’s Liam’s voice, urgent and strong, and I flatten myself harder against the wall as if the force alone could make me disappear.

I can’t see him from here, his body hidden by the stairwell wall, but that doesn’t mean he can’t see me: my long shadow spilling down the steps, the sound of my breath suddenly so loud in my ears.

“Looks like a big one,” he continues as I hear him take a few steps into the foyer. Then I glance out the window, noticing the marbled clouds in the distance. The sky was so clear only an hour ago, but now it’s dark, practically black, and I can smell the metallic threat of rain through the door.

“I need some help securing everything,” he adds. “Wind’s already starting to pick up.”

A thick silence settles over the house as I imagine the two of them in a stiff standoff, Mitchell staring at Liam from a few feet away.

“Where’s Claire?” Mitchell asks at last as I feel a spasm in my chest at the sound of my name.

Just a few days ago, it had almost been soothing listening to him say it from the top of the porch, his voice a salve easing the sting of these last few months.

It had felt like he knew me, somehow. Like he understood me.

Like I could actually see my problems floating away with a simple snap of his fingers, dandelion seeds getting swept up in the breeze—but now it just sounds wrong , coming from him, and I have the sudden urge to crawl out of my skin.

Burrow under the covers to keep myself safe.

“Sleeping,” Liam says. “She’s still recovering from yesterday. Besides, it’ll be faster if you help. She doesn’t know where anything is.”

A sigh erupts from Mitchell’s direction followed by the clink of glass as he puts his cup down. Then I track his footsteps as he makes his way down the hall before he and Liam retreat to the porch, slamming the door hard behind them.