Page 35 of Forget Me Not

My flashlight clicks off, the room around me dreary and dim. There’s been a tangible shift in the air, another stretch of lost time I can’t account for as I let myself get wrapped up in Marcia’s old memories. Tales of her past devouring my present with an inexplicable strength.

I look down at my phone, the screen dead and the battery drained. Then I flip the book closed, dropping it onto the mattress before glancing out the window to find the rain still falling. Water coming down in vicious sheets I’m sure are flooding the marsh.

I slip out of bed, gooseflesh erupting across the skin of my legs as I pad my way to the other side of the room before tapping impatiently at the keys on my laptop. The power is still off. I’m not connected, I know I’m not, but my fingers are practically itching to pick back up on my search.

To try and make sense of these pieces that seem so disconnected, so impossibly hard to grasp.

I slap the lid closed, sliding open the desk drawer instead and staring at the gun stashed inside next to that sentence crudely etched in the dark. Then I hear a low rumble and glance out the window. There’s a figure making its way across the lawn, barely visible beneath the bloated gray clouds.

It’s hunched over, attempting to hide from the sideways rain. Beelining its way straight toward me.

I look down, realizing I’m still barely clothed, so I slide the drawer shut and walk toward the dresser before pulling on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, making my way to the other side of the house.

Then I run my nails through my still-damp hair before twisting the lock on the door and swinging it open.

“Nasty weather,” Liam says by way of a greeting, eyes peeking out from beneath his hood. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not,” I say, gesturing for him to step inside. He brushes past me and I shut the door fast; fat, wet drops slipping their way in as he flaps out the moisture clinging to the shell of his coat.

He looks up at me now, the two of us standing just a few feet apart.

“Looks like this might hang around for a while,” he says before pulling off his hood to reveal a mop of wet hair. “Did you get caught in it?”

The moment feels intimate, how dark it is.

The air between us still and stale after the last hour with the power shut off.

There’s water running down the bridge of his nose, dripping onto the hardwood floor, and I realize now that he’s looking at me so strangely: head tilted to the side like he’s trying to work through some problem he can’t understand.

“I thought you came inside before it started,” he adds.

I look down, two twin spots of damp on my shirt where the ends of my wet hair are resting on the fabric. Then I open my mouth, ready to croak out a lie about taking a shower when I see Liam’s eyes dart down to my legs before glancing at the clothes crumpled up by my bed.

The clothes he saw me wearing earlier, the ones that got soaked during my run across the yard now pooling water onto the floor.

“I went back out,” I say instead, looking next at my ankles, the smears of dried mud caked to my skin.

My mind is racing to come up with something new, something plausible.

Something he might actually believe. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went back out, but then the skies opened up and you weren’t in the vineyard.

I thought I saw you walk into the shed?”

“Yeah,” he says, still eyeing me like he doesn’t actually believe the things that I’m saying. “When the wind picks up like this, we try to secure things the best we can.”

“I’m assuming this means we’re done for the day.”

“Probably tomorrow, too,” he says, nodding as he takes another step inside. “Soil’s gonna be too wet to be walking around.”

I smile, relieved he’s not pushing it, but I also can’t tell if he’s just being polite.

“Two days off,” he adds. “Lucky you.”

“When do you think we’ll get the power back?” I ask, twisting around as my eyes land on the diary sitting in plain view on the bed. I didn’t hide it this time, Liam’s unexpected arrival catching me off guard, and I position my body between him and the mattress, trying my best to obscure his view.

“Hard to say,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow, but you just never know.”

“Do you think it’s out everywhere?”

“I’m really not sure,” he replies, turning to the side as he surveys the kitchen. My dirty cookware and dishes, dried eggs peeling from the skillet in the sink. “The center of town is a bit more connected, but when the lines are down out here, they’re usually down all over.”

I nod, chewing over the fact that I’m now completely cut off.

I watch as Liam turns back in my direction, squinting again like he’s digging through his mind for some explanation that refuses to make itself known.

“Was there anything else?” I ask, not wanting to be rude but suddenly uncomfortable under his gaze.

I’m practically sitting on top of the diary now, my body backing up slowly as the two of us talk, and while I doubt he knows what it is, I doubt a simple glimpse at the cover would give anything away, I can’t risk him finding it and looking inside.

I can’t risk him flipping it open and reading that first line— I guess I’ll start with my name, Marcia— suddenly realizing the reason behind all my questions, a probing curiosity I can’t contain.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like he’s trying to work up his nerve.

He’s wearing the same uneasy expression as when he was about to step into the shed behind Mitchell, glancing back at the house before taking a breath, and I feel a faint tingle somewhere in my chest as I wonder if he somehow knew I was there.

I clench my fists, waiting for him to ask me outright, but instead, he hoists up a bottle I hadn’t noticed he was holding.

“You want a drink?” he asks, a small smile peeking through as he wiggles the glass neck in the air. “I figured, since the day is a wash, we might as well have a little fun.”

I look down, realizing the bottle must have been tucked inside the flap of his jacket.

Then I glance at the digital clock on the stove, nothing but a black box where the little green numbers would normally be.

I have no idea what time it is, probably sometime in the late afternoon, and while it feels a little too early for a drink, there’s really not much else we can do.

“Why not,” I say as he places the bottle on the counter before stripping off his jacket, turning around to hang it up on the wall. I take the few seconds with his back turned to grab the sheets and whip them over the diary, obscuring it from view before he turns back around.

“What are we having?” I ask as he takes a couple mugs from the cabinet next, twisting the cap off the bottle with a crack.

“Muscadine wine,” he says, glugging a healthy pour into them both. “Made it myself.”

“A man of many talents.”

“I always keep some grapes at the end of each harvest,” he explains, walking across the cabin to join me on the bed.

Then he hands me a mug and I look down at the liquid, eyeing it with a sudden sense of unease.

“It’s sweet, but good,” he adds, maybe mistaking my reluctance for an aversion to the taste.

“Don’t knock it until you try it, you’ll be pleasantly surprised. ”

I nod, trying to bide my time, because the truth is, I’m still on edge about accepting that tea in the main house. I don’t really want to drink this until Liam does first, and as if on cue, I watch as he takes a long sip himself.

Only then do I lift my own mug to my lips, a syrupy sweetness coating my throat.

“It is good.”

I look back up to find Liam still watching, his eyes on mine in a steadfast stare.

“What?” I ask, feeling progressively more uncomfortable under his gaze. “What is it?”

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” he says, glancing away like he just realized what he was doing. “There’s just so much I want to know about you. You’re not exactly an open book.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“Touché,” he says, raising his mug to take a long drink.

“A question for a question?” I ask, wondering if I can use this moment to my advantage, get Liam a little tipsy and convince him to talk.

I still don’t know how much he knows about Mitchell, if he can shed any light on my concerns, but at the same time, I at least get the sense that he knows more than he’s letting on—and that he’s somehow on my side.

“Fair enough.”

“All right,” I say, pulling my feet up beneath me before leaning my back onto the headboard. “You go first.”

He sighs, twisting his neck. Eyes on the ceiling like he’s searching for a question somewhere up above. Then he turns toward me, finally, his expression solemn in the barely there light.

“Why are you here?”

The query catches me off guard, the frankness of it, and I have no idea how to respond. Instead, I look down at my mug, the finger of liquid still sitting at the bottom, and drain it completely before reaching for the bottle and pouring some more.

“I mean, why are you really here?” he adds, almost like he knows I’m searching my mind for a lie.

I sigh, chewing on my cheek as I weigh all my options.

Thinking back to earlier as I hid on the stairs, Liam bursting in at just the right time.

It was just like that first night when he swooped in from the kitchen, always aware of when I need to be saved, and I start to wonder now if those moments weren’t really a coincidence.

If maybe Liam has been looking out for me on purpose, keeping an eye out to help me stay safe.

“I came here as a kid,” I say at last, deciding to try on a version of the truth. “To visit my sister.”

I look up at him now, his expression empty as he waits for me to go on.

“She worked here one summer, back in 2002, and then she died shortly thereafter.”

“What was her name?” he asks, his voice soft and still.

“Natalie Campbell,” I say, realizing I can’t even remember the last time I said it out loud.

“I came here because I was curious, I guess. I had no intention of staying, but then, I don’t know.

It was almost like I could feel her here and I was trying to hold on to that.

The sensation of being close to her again. ”

I pick at my nail, not really sure why I’m being so honest. Maybe it’s the lack of light, sitting here in the dark, and the fact that it feels like I’m talking to myself.

Or maybe it’s the alcohol already coursing its way through my veins, the low growl of thunder like static in my ears.

Whatever it is, though, I’m suddenly certain that Liam can help me—and that if I expect to pry any information from him, I first need to give him some of my own.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and I can tell he genuinely means it.

“It’s fine,” I say, feeling the sting of impending tears. I reach my hand up, wipe them away before they can escape. “I mean, it’s not fine, but you know. I’ve been trying to make it fine.”

“What happened?” he asks, and I look up at him again, his face twisted in pity.

“This is more than one question.” I smile.

“I’ll give you more in return.”

I sigh, leaning farther against the pillows. Turning the mug around in my hands.

“She was dating an older guy,” I say. “A twenty-eight-year-old named Jeffrey Slater.”

I think back to the article I reread yesterday morning, the few details about him the police had shared.

“I guess he was known to hang around younger girls,” I continue, Liam’s gaze on the side of my face as he clings to my every word.

“He would buy them beer, go to their parties. He had a few misdemeanors, a short stint in jail, and I guess Natalie thought that was cool. Instead of, you know, realizing how creepy it was.”

“Kids are so vulnerable at that age,” Liam responds, and I find myself nodding. The fact that my sister probably never even considered someone like that might cause her harm. “They think they’re invincible. Like the concept of mortality doesn’t even apply.”

“Yeah,” I say, the word getting lost as a rumble of thunder cuts between us, the sound strong enough to rattle the house. Then I watch as Liam grabs the bottle, pouring another splash into each of our cups.

“To Natalie,” he says as he holds out his arm, his mug suspended up in the air. Then I clear my throat, an attempt to swallow the sob climbing its way up.

“To Natalie,” I repeat as a total silence settles around us, broken only by the soft clink of our mugs in the dark.