The smell immediately brings back traumatic memories and I realize that I need to make this quick or I’ll be leaving empty-handed.
With my phone gripped tightly in my hand, I pay close attention to make sure it doesn’t vibrate. Zed said he’d text me if I needed to hurry and get out. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that because I panic under pressure.
Zed said there is a box somewhere in here, but I have no idea where this box could be. The house is only about twelve hundred square feet, so it can’t be too hard to locate.
I start with the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards and drawers, but I find nothing.
My heart rate excels when I eye Rick and Mom’s room. Well, Rick’s room now. The door is closed and if Rick is hiding anything, that’s where I’d expect it to be. I turn the handle and push the door open. It looks the same as it always does. Full-size bed in the middle of the room against the wall. A floral comforter laid on top with decorative throw pillows that match. His dresser sits on the right side and holds different biblical figurines such as a candle that he lights during his prayers. I pull open the top drawer and shuffle through his endless amounts of socks. Nothing.
Second drawer, just folded T-shirts. Nothing.
Third and fourth drawers, more clothes. Nothing.
Next, I try the closet, but that also leads to a dead end.
“Where could it be?” I mumble, beginning to feel anxious and agitated. I turn my phone on and text Zed.
Me: I can’t find anything. Are you sure there’s a box? Maybe he got rid of it.
He immediately responds.
Z: It’s there. Keep looking.
“Damnit.” I spit out. I rarely swear, but I’m finding that the use of swear words does actually help to relieve stress.
I head out of the room and an unwanted realization sweeps over me when I eyeball the basement door. If I had my way, that whole basement would be filled with cement and cease to exist. There are so many awful memories of that small space. Rick would only go down there when he’d take me with him to catch a feel or relieve some of his own pent-up tension. It’s pretty empty, aside from some old boxes and shelves.
The clear plastic handle feels cold against my skin. The edges digging into my hand because I’m gripping it with enough force to snap it off. Taking in a deep breath, I open it. The musky aroma immediately hits me, but I hold my breath and take a few steps down the old rickety wooden staircase.
It’s damp and pretty much what you’d expect to find in any old basement of a house built in the early nineteen-hundreds.
Still standing on the steps, I scour the room, hoping I don’t have to go any farther. I really don’t want to see anything worth checking out down here because I can already feel sweat dripping between my boobs.
I swallow hard when I see an old bookshelf perched against the very back wall of the basement. Just ignore it, Willa.
My phone vibrates, causing my body to jerk.
Z: Hurry up.
“You come down here and I’ll tell you to hurry up. Asshole.” I should send that to him, but I don’t. Instead, I creep farther down. Standing on the last step, I lean forward to try and get a better look, but it’s too dark, so I flip on the flashlight on my phone and shine it over toward the shelf.
It’s packed full of dusty old books. If I run over, skim through them quickly, I can be out of this basement in two minutes tops.
So, that’s what I do.
With my flashlight on, I tear the books off the shelf, one by one, letting them fall to the floor. There are at least a dozen different Bibles. Christian books. A few old romance novels that were probably Mom’s.
Once the first row is cleared, I move onto the second, pulling books and dropping them over and over again, until one drops with a hollow sound against the cement.
Bending down, I pick it up. It looks like a book, but it’s not. It’s a wooden box with a small clasp on the side. The spine looks like that of a Bible and on the top it reads, ‘but if you do not forgive others for their sins. Our father will not forgive you for your sins.’
This is it! I send Zed a quick text telling him I have it and then I bolt to the stairs, making no attempt to slow my steps. Once I’m at the top, I push the door open and don’t even bother shutting it.
Gripping the box tightly to my chest, I go back outside and stick to the promise of not looking inside the box. As curious as I am, I get the feeling that looking inside would be a death wish that Zed would grant me.
His vehicle begins creeping down the road and his arm is stretched out the driver’s side window. I jog over to him, place it in his hand and with his eyes set straight ahead on the road, he doesn’t say a word, then he’s gone.
I sure hope whatever is in that box brings him peace and not more war.
Lars' car is parked in front of the garage, blocking the entrance, so I pull up behind him and turn the ignition off.
Going through the side door of the garage, I flip the light on, so I can see, then enter through the mud room. I kick my shoes off before opening the door and I'm immediately hit with the overpowering and ever so satisfying aroma of garlic.
Lars is standing over the stove, wearing an apron, while the heavy metal lyrics of Slipknot blast through the speakers in the kitchen.
I'm pretty positive that he has no idea I'm here, so I make no attempt to be known. Taking soft baby
