The Huntress [2018 Archived]

Chapter 16

I ditched school early, hopped into my car, and started for home. Out of my periphery, I saw police cars cruising around the streets to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity. Ever since Nate's death was linked to the homeless girl's, Winshest doubled up on security. Now I couldn't even run out to the grocery store without locking the door behind me.

Up ahead, a squad car waited at the corner so I made sure to stop at the stop sign instead of rolling through-or completely ignoring it-like I usually did. As the cop passed me, he gave a short, friendly nod, like he was saying, Stay safe.

I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles blanched. Keeping my eyes down, I crossed the intersection and pulled into my driveway.

My house was neat, painted white with green shutters. Manicured beds of daisies and Black-eyed Susans surrounded the path, giving onlookers a respite from the sheer greenery of Oregon. It was small compared to the estates on the outer edges of town, just housing my mother and I. Dad, true to his nature, lived on the other side of the country-as far away from Mom as he could get.

I parked recklessly, with the tire half-propped up on the curb, ensuring a lecture later.

Locking the car doors behind me, I cut through the lawn and dashed into the house. As soon as I was safely inside, I peeked through the front blinds and scanned the roads for any unfamiliar cars. It was a little habit that I had taken up, constantly checking over my shoulder.

The residential homes of my neighborhood looked almost comically similar. The same flower beds, mailboxes, trim lawns. I knew Mom appreciated the safety, the sameness, of Winshest, but to me, all I could see was monotony.

I wandered into the kitchen, only to nearly trip over a stack of dusty cardboard boxes. The door to the cellar stood wide open, a yellow sticky note taped to it.

Could you sort these boxes out for me? It's about time we got rid of a few things!

Love, your Mom.

An unwilling groan escaped my lips. An afternoon of sorting did not seem appealing, but the lure of old treasure intrigued me. I had always preferred going through the crates of junk in the attic than partying on Friday nights. At least, I used to.

I dragged the pile to the living room, plopped on the couch, and opened the first package. A plume of dust escaped, the fine particles trickling into my nose. I sneezed and pinched my nostrils together before taking a peek at the contents. The first items were piles of discarded baby clothes, pink and frilly and occasionally stained-I was a messy baby. I chuckled a little. Mom never allowed me to eat spaghetti without a bib until I was at least seven. I folded the clothes and set them off to the side to give away to Emmie's latest brat.

The next couple boxes were filled with broken toys and some old school projects. I carefully unstuck each faded card stock craft and paper mache sculpture from the sides of the box, the smell of old glue wafting into the air. Into a large black trash bag they went.

As soon as I reached one of the final boxes, I felt an ominous cloud settle over me. My hands hovered over the package reverently. Finally, I lifted the lid and peered inside.

A streak of pain raced through my heart.

Snapshots, a little faded, a little speckled, but still loved. Still vibrant.

I picked up a glossy stack of photographs with trembling fingers. A toothless seven-year-old Aaron grinned up at me, his blonde hair ruffled around his head like pale feathers. He held up a small perch, hardly worth hours of plunking a line in an out of the water, but a proud smile spread over his face. He was missing his front tooth.