duffel bags and my backpack, while simultaneously lugging a suitcase that exceeded the maximum weight limit of most airlines. While I lugged and pulled, Amanda tied her hair up in a ponytail and threw a baggy sweater over her tank top. She was effortlessly stunning, her natural beauty accentuated by the frumpy clothes. When she caught me staring, her lips curled into a demure smile. She had a look of fake pity.
“That’s what you get for offering to help. Here, before you get a hernia.” She took one of the duffels and carried it inside.
The house was cold and filled with stale air. Amanda fiddled with a thermostat as I set the bags down. Between the cold, my T-shirt, fatigue and my leg, I began to shiver. Amanda noticed this, looked concerned.
“Come on,” she said. She led me through the foyer to a closet. Inside were dozens of sweaters, threaded with some of the most horrendous fashion designs and colors I’d ever seen. Ugly maroon cotton. Green wool with a bald eagle sewn into the chest. A smiling deer embroidered with purple stitching. And they smelled like they’d last been worn by Daniel Boone.
“Feel free to raid my dad’s sweater closet,” she said. “He hasn’t worn this stuff in years. I never was good at giving Christmas presents. Somebody might as well get some use out of them.”
I thanked her, and while normally I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing sweaters so hideous they’d offend Bill Gates’s fashion sense, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Besides, I didn’t want to insult my host. And hey, bald eagles are patriotic.
I took a moment to take in the house’s grandeur, the tall white walls and long mirrors like something out of a Raymond Chandler novel, and the full bar with smoky brown liquor that could warm me better than any sweater. The walls were lined with lithographs encased in crystal-clear glass, an oil painting of the famous arch framed in polished bronze.
“I’d offer you something to eat or drink,” Amanda said. “But unless you’re in the mood for instant oatmeal you’re out of luck. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, but I imagine you’ll have your situation figured out by then, right?”
I nodded distractedly. We carried her bags up a narrow flight of stairs, Amanda flicking on a series of lights as we went. Down an off-white hallway, lined with deep blue carpeting, I lugged her bags into a dark room. I knew it was Amanda’s bedroom before she even turned on the light.
Even with the moon’s faint rays shielded by the drawn shades, I could sense a soft femininity in the dark. Half a dozen stuffed animals were perched on her bed, arranged with care. The room felt warm, inviting, different than the rest of the house.
Without thinking I said, “I like your room.”
She turned to me with a big smile, the kind given when a genuine compliment comes from an unexpected source. Those always meant the most.
“Thanks,” she said, a hint of girlishness sneaking into her voice for the first time since we’d met. I liked it, liked seeing that beneath the suit of armor was something delicate.
Right now Amanda felt safe, secure in her home. Perhaps a slight hint of adventure brought on by the stranger in her bedroom. She knew nothing about me other than the superficial notes in her journal, the truth as deep as her pen’s ink.
Maybe this was a thrill for her. But I felt no such joy, no comfort, no adventure. Even in a moment like this, where I should at least feel a sort of vicarious comfort, the emotion was wasted. Because my life was in a state of purgatory, all the small joys I experienced now would add up to nothing more than faded memories, lost opportunities.
“Come on,” she said, leading me out of the room. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”
She led me down the hall, past a bathroom and a linen closet, pointing out a closed door on the right.
“You can use that bathroom. Just make sure to put the seat down, okay? Otherwise we’ll have problems.” Smiling, I said I would.
There was a small guest room, the bed looking like it had never been slept in. “There’s an extra blanket in the closet if you get cold,” she said. “Just do me a favor and strip the bed in the morning so I can wash the sheets.”
“No problem. That’s the least I can do.”
“Well, if I think of anything else involving manual labor I’ll let you know.”
I thanked Amanda. When she left I immediately collapsed on the bed. It was hard and uncaring. Running my hand under the comforter, I felt lumpy egg crates and a plywood board underneath. Thankfully the pillows were soft. I kicked off my shoes, my leg throbbing with every movement. Sitting back up, I closed the door, tentatively took down my pants and studied the bullet wound. The gash on my thigh was angry and red, and it hurt to put my full weight on it.
The pain was bearable, but suddenly I felt a dam burst in my head and all the frustration and hate and anger writhed inside me like demons trying to burst through my skin. I flailed against the mattress, my fists pounding, letting loose silent fury bottled up and shaken by the last twenty-four hours. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I cursed the events that had changed my life, that had made me a marked man. The hero of the day.
John Fredrickson’s death. God damn it, why had I even knocked on the Guzmans’ door? Barring some divine intervention, my life as I knew it was over. My pitiful thumps against the pillows meant nothing, only letting out the excess energy before it built right back up again. I pounded and punched until the blanket was covered in lumps and the stains of my tears, the first tangible evidence of my ever-growing sorrow. Alone in a strange girl’s house, abandoned by the world. Kept company only by my alleged sins.
Once the anger subsided, I managed to stand up. My head was woozy, the adrenaline rush petering out.
I heard a shower start down the hall. Cracking open the door, I saw a fine mist leaking from the bathroom. Amanda was gutsy, trusting a stranger with the run of the house. Every girl I’d ever known took a minimum of thirty minutes to shower. No reason Amanda would be any different. There was a guest bathroom downstairs. Hopefully I could wash up and be back before she finished.
Gripping the banister tight, I eased down the stairs, toe to heel to hide any noise. The house was quiet save the shower, the wind outside building, whistling and whipping through the trees.
As long as I stayed in my own little world, looked at everything rationally, it seemed manageable. Cleaning my leg would be simple. Finding somewhere to go tomorrow would be hard. A few nights sleeping at bus stops would be a humbling experience, but one I’d have to stomach. But what then?
Two linen cabinets and one door to the basement later, I found the bathroom. The white tiles were freshly cleaned and I smiled at the quaint seashell-shaped hand soap. On a metal rack hung hand towels monogrammed with three letters-HSJ.
I opened the medicine cabinet, swore under my breath. Nothing. Not even a goddamn Band-Aid. What kind of people were Amanda’s parents? What if a dinner guest accidentally swallowed a turkey baster? Shouldn’t they at least own some Pepto-Bismol?
I closed the chest, ran a trickle of warm water from the faucet. I wiped away the dried blood with wet tissues. I gritted my teeth, tried to ignore the stabbing pain as my blood turned the water red. I threw the bloodied papers in the toilet and flushed.
Creeping back upstairs, I couldn’t help but peek into Amanda’s empty bedroom.
She was in the shower. What the hell.
I took an old yearbook off the shelf, flipped to Amanda’s page. There was an aerial shot of her, the photographer standing on a roof or a ladder looking down. Amanda was cross-legged on a bed of grass, smiling. The picture was so happy, so serene, but there was sorrow behind Amanda’s eyes, as though she wished that moment had perhaps occurred at a different time and place.
I noticed the covers on her bed had been pulled back a bit, revealing a small trunk underneath the mattress box.
The shower was still running. I knelt down and slid it out. The top had plenty of dents and dings from years of being yanked from dark places. The Master Lock was undone. Without hesitation, I removed the lock and threw the cover back. When I looked inside, my breath caught in my throat.
Dozens, no, hundreds of small spiral notebooks filled the trunk nearly to the brim. They were all different shapes and sizes, some with pages torn and falling out, some looking like they’d been read a thousand times. I plucked one from the top of the pile, felt the small indents where her pen had pressed hard on the paper. When I flipped it open, I saw that every single page had been filled top to bottom. The same kind of notes she’d been
