Page 41 of Traitor
I nearly crash into the floor when my feet go out from under me. I manage to catch myself on the doorframe, knocking my wrists and bruising my knuckles in the process. Once I’m steady, I carefully get to my feet and pull the cord for the closet light.
For a moment, I think I’m seeing things because I’m so tired, and my nerves are shot from the adrenaline of finding the door open. But after opening and closing my eyes, the scene in front of me doesn’t change.
Water drips from my suitcase and onto the floor in a puddle that had caused me to slip on the worn linoleum. My lungs convulse for oxygen as I reach out a tentative hand for the zipper. I’m half-expecting to find the body of the woman inside, broken and crumpled to fit. Instead, when I unzip, a wet ball of clothes tumbles from the interior and lands at my feet in a soggyplop.
It’s the clothes I was wearing the night I saw the woman being murdered. My brows furrow as I fall to my knees to study them. It can’t be right. It can’t be. But I open them up and spread them across the floor. It’s the same shirt, the same jeans. Except, I’d had them laundered that night because I couldn’t bear to look at them. I’d stored them in the dry-cleaning bags because I wasn’t sure I could wear them again.
I search through the closet, but the hangers and the dry-cleaning bags are gone. I could have sworn they were the only things I hung in the closet. Could I have forgotten? The moldy, earthy smell of damp clothes soaked in lake water wafts up to my nose. The scent is undeniable. It even smells like that night.
Fumbling, I paw at the clothes and roll them into a saturated ball. The water soaks into my apron and jeans, but I can barely feel the chill. I make my way, nearly stumbling, to the kitchen where I throw the clothes into the garbage can and slam the lid shut.
I must have been mistaken. That’s the only logical explanation. I’ve lost time before, forgotten how I spent the day or misremembered events. It hasn’t happened in a long time, and I thought I’d gotten past it, but maybe the stress of losing the money, of witnessing the murder, had brought all those feelings back up.
Even so, I shower with the curtain open, water going everywhere, but I don’t care. The thought of being vulnerable in any capacity has me on edge for the rest of the evening. I can barely choke down my dinner, and because sleeping is an impossibility, I stay up nearly all night trying, and failing, to paint again.
In the first light of dawn, I’m nodding off in the big, old two-seater chair when a knock at the door brings me to my feet and the cup of tea I’d been holding crashing to the floor. I fly to the door, heedless of the shattered china, and wish I’d brought a gun instead of the can of mace. I peer through the lace curtains on the peekaboo window and find a man’s face on the other side.
I nearly rip the door off its hinges as I swing it open, relief turning my legs into Jello. “Uncle Bradley!”
His mouth twitches under a thick silver beard. “Hey there, Peanut.”
I launch myself into his arms, thankful for their comforting weight around me. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t think I’d let you stay in some strange town without checking on you, did you? I know you wanted to do this on your own, but you have to give an old man a break.”
Normally, I’d be furious he followed me, but right now, I could use the reassurance. “Don’t be silly. I’m happy you’re here.” I tug him inside and shut the door behind him. “How long will you be able to stay?”
“Just a couple days. Did something happen?” he asks.
I blink a few times. Surely he can’t read my expression that easily? “W-what?”
He gestures to the broken china. “You hurt yourself?”
Relieved, I get to my knees and start picking up the mug. “No, you startled me is all. Honestly, I was half asleep in the chair when you knocked, and the cup went flying from my hands. It’s nothing, I promise.”
Uncle Bradley takes a seat opposite me on the loveseat. “Nothing, huh? You sure about that?”
I put the cup in the trash and grab a hand towel to soak up the liquid. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Peanut. I know you better than that. I heard on the news that someone witnessed a murder here. A young woman with long blonde hair. An artist.”
I wince. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out about that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, and I can’t look up from the floor where I mop up the mess.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
His sigh makes my heart heavy. “It’s the not knowing that worries me more than anything. You’ve already been through more than enough for one lifetime. You shouldn’t have to go through these things alone.”
I send him a sunny smile. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve spoken with the sheriff, they’re doing everything they can. It may have been a huge misunderstanding.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I appreciate you coming. The people here have been very kind to me. I’ve got a wonderful job, this place. I’m safe here.”
“So safe you witnessed a murder?”
“There’s no evidence so far a murder was ever committed.” The words taste like acid on my tongue. But I choke them out because being smothered once again is worse than thinking I imagined it all.
“Be that as it may, I hope you don’t mind if I stay a couple days.”
I paste on a cheery smile. “Of course not!”
Having Uncle Bradley over cements the decision in my mind not to report the door unlocked or the wet clothes to the sheriff. It was probably nothing, anyway.
Maybe the stress of the past week had finally gotten to me.