Beneath the Shadowlanders

Chapter Forty-One: Genevieve

We wait for the General at the gates of Underland. David says we'll stop him as soon as he comes through. Abigail points out a house next to the gates that she says is empty. She and her boyfriend – Terrance, I think? – lead us into the living room, where we settle in for a long wait.

I claim a spot next to the window in a worn loveseat that's covered in dust. I beat some of the dust out of the cushions, much to the chagrin of those near me, and flop down onto it. I'm pretty sure I hear something crack when I do, but nothing falls apart, and it's actually pretty comfortable, so I stay in place.

I stare out the window for a while, but it gets boring pretty quickly, so I decide to search the house and see if there are any books left behind. I leave instructions for someone to come get me if the General arrives, and Orion offers to accompany me.

"In case we run into any shadows," he explains facetiously. Gabe glares at us as we disappear upstairs. The first room we find is an office. There's an empty desk in one corner, accompanied by a shelf filled with papers and picture frames. We ignore the papers, going straight for the photographs. In the first are two children, both boys, and a smiling woman with short red hair in a blue sundress. The boys look to be about middle school age. It looks like a vacation photo – there's a mountain in the background, and everyone looks much too posed and happy. I replace it on the shelf and pick up another one, this time of a man crouched down with his arm around a beagle. It's so strange to see all these pictures from before, with all the shadows intact.

Orion leans over my shoulder, placing a hand on my waist. I pretend not to notice. "What do you think they were like?" he asks, pointing to the pictures.

I think for a moment. "I don't know," I shrug.

"Probably happy, from the pictures," he suggests. "They're always smiling."

"Pictures can be deceiving," I murmur, thinking about some of the pictures my parents took after their divorce. I remember I was severely depressed for weeks – I even saw a therapist – but I'll be damned if I'm not grinning like an idiot in every one of those photos.

"True, I suppose," he admits. "Do you think they were close?"

"Maybe." I pick up one of the more candid shots. A photo of the two boys chasing the dog across the yard. The redhead woman is standing behind them leaning against the doorframe with a glass of lemonade in her hand, grinning at whoever is holding the camera. The older boy has his hand out behind him, as if he's reaching toward the younger. The dog is a blur on the far side of the photo. "Yeah, I think maybe they were..." I mumble.

"I think..." he picks up another photo, gently taking the one out of my hands and placing it back on the shelf. This one is of the man and the woman. They're holding hands. The woman is resting her head on the man's shoulder, her eyes turned upward toward his face. The man's eyes sparkle and he's grinning shyly. They're leaning against a kitchen counter, an unopened bottle of wine visible behind them. They look almost dressed up, in a sort of low-key way. The woman is in a knee length black dress, her hair pulled up into a lose updo. The man is in a button down shirt, blazer, and jeans, and his hair looks "artfully messy." The photo is a little smudged, as if the person taking it couldn't hold still. "I think this one is their anniversary," he announces. "I think one of their boys took the picture, right before they went out for date night. The wine is for when they get home," he points to the bottom of the photo, "and the money on the corner of the table is probably for the boys to order pizza or something."

I hadn't even noticed the money. "How do you know it's a special occasion at all? Maybe they just got home from work or something, and their kid was playing with the camera," I comment.