The Inmate (71)

“But I want to go,” Josh pouts.

I guess this is going to be a family trip.

Shane heads outside to shovel the driveway, and I gather cleaning supplies from the house. I don’t know entirely what to bring, and I’m worried that the entire house will be filthy beyond words. There isn’t carpeting, so I don’t bother with the vacuum. I bring the mop and bucket, lots of cleaning fluid, some rags, and two rolls of paper towels. Shane is going to have his work cut out for him.

After I’ve got all the supplies, I go to grab my car keys to throw everything into the trunk. I keep my keys on the bookcase right next to the entrance to the house, on the fourth shelf from the top, right in front of Webster’s dictionary. Except when I go to reach for them, they’re not there.

Where are my keys?

A split second later, I spot the keys on the third shelf. In the same spot where I usually put them, except one shelf higher. I snatch them up in my hand, looking at the key ring as if for a clue.

I’m sure I put the keys on the fourth shelf. I put them there every single day when I get home from the store or work or wherever. It’s automatic. I do it without even thinking about it. So while I don’t remember putting the keys on that shelf, I’m sure I must’ve done it.

Of course, when I got home yesterday, a lot was going on. I was bringing home the father of my son, a man who had been locked away in prison for the last decade. I had a lot on my mind. If there’s ever a time when I might have put the keys in the wrong spot, it was yesterday.

Still, it makes me uneasy. Last night when I woke up in the middle of the night, I was certain I heard a car engine right outside my window. And now my keys are in a different place than where I left them.

I wish I had checked my car last night. If somebody had been using my car, there would’ve been snow on it. But now it’s too late. Any snow would have melted.

The front door swings open and Shane bursts into the house, his gloves caked with snow. He rests the shovel in the corner by the door where he found it and smiles at me. “You got everything we need?”

This is silly. I must’ve just put the keys in the wrong place. I have a lot on my mind. I shouldn’t drive myself crazy over-analyzing this. And anyway, what if Shane did take the car somewhere last night? Would that really be the worst thing that ever was? Maybe he just wanted to know what it was like to be behind the wheel again after all that time. I couldn’t blame him.

“Yes,” I say. “I got it all.”

Fifteen minutes later, we have loaded up the Toyota with the cleaning supplies, and I get on the road with Shane in the passenger seat and Josh in the back. I have this awful sick feeling as I pull onto the road, but I promised Shane I would do this. I can’t back out.

“You know how to get there?” he asks.

“Yes,” I snap.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

No, I’m not okay. We are driving out to the house where I was almost murdered eleven years ago. There’s nothing about this that is okay. But I can’t exactly say all that in front of my son. “I’m fine.”

“I appreciate you doing this.”

“Yep.”

Shane seems to realize that I don’t want to talk about this anymore, so he shuts up and leans back in his seat. The roads have been mostly cleared out in the morning, so even though I don’t have all-wheel drive, it’s not too bad navigating around Raker. It isn’t until I turn onto the smaller road to get to the farmhouse that it gets a little slippery. The road has been plowed, but not very well, and because it’s below freezing temperature, a lot of the remaining snow has turned into ice.

“Jesus,” Shane comments as the car skids off to the side. “Be careful, Brooke. Don’t you know how to drive in the snow?”

Not very well. I didn’t have a car back in Queens—I just took the bus where I needed to go. This Toyota is the first car I have ever owned, and this is my first winter dealing with serious snow.

“Maybe you could give me some tips sometime,” I say.

“Yeah, maybe.”

I drive slowly for the rest of the mile stretch out to the farmhouse. I must be going less than ten miles an hour. After a few minutes, the house comes into sight.

It looked bad eleven years ago, and if possible, it looks even worse now. The red paint has nearly completely worn off, except for a few little patches, and the steps to the front door have almost completely crumbled away. The roof is covered with snow, and it seems to at least be holding up, but I bet there’s plenty of damage there as well. This house is a little more than a fixer-upper.

Shane is staring at his old home, his hands clutching his knees. I can’t quite read his thoughts until he bursts out, “Look! It’s my old Chevy!”

Sure enough, Shane’s old car is still parked out by the house, covered in a healthy layer of snow but still recognizable. I’m sure the car will need as much work as the house to get it in usable condition. I pull over next to the Chevy, hoping I can still get my car out after this. The Toyota is not good at backing out of snowy areas.

“That’s where I used to live, Josh,” Shane tells him.

“It’s like a haunted house,” Josh comments.

Shane winks at me. “It might be.”

I wouldn’t entirely be surprised. After all, three people died here. It feels like Shane isn’t quite feeling the gravity of that. He actually seems happy to be here.