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“That’s great. If everything is coming back, we’ll keep trying and—”
“You don’t understand!” he snaps. He curses under his breath, then continues in a calmer tone. “I also remember things that don’t make sense. I can remember touching you, kissing you…before.”
“We had one kiss in junior high. Maybe—”
His gaze lands on mine. “It wasn’t a junior high kiss. Neither is the memory of my cock in your mouth. So, unless that also happened before…”
“No, it didn’t.”
“The memories of you are every bit as vivid as the ones I know are real, but they can’t be. I think fantasies are getting mixed up with reality and I’m scared that soon I won’t know what’s real. Every night I dream about gunshots and blood and someone screaming my name. I know it’s trying to come back, and something the cognitive therapist said…” He shakes his head. “He said I’m afraid to know the truth. That I’m fighting the memories, running from them. If that’s true, the only way I can think to stop running is to confront the worst one head-on. Everything started there. I need to know what happened that day. I need to know if I murdered two people.” When I open my mouth to argue, he cups my face. “And so do you. Will you go with me?”
There’s no way I can refuse him. Maybe he’s right and this will be what breaks the dam holding back his memories. “Of course I will.”
A text from Milo rattles my phone.
Milo
Still can’t reach Oliver. Do you want the shop to open tomorrow?
“It’s Milo. He wants to know whether to open up the shop tomorrow. There’s a blizzard coming tonight and more snow predicted tomorrow.”
“Tell him to stay closed for the next couple of days. Until it’s over.”
Me
Oliver is with me. He just showed up at my place. Stay home and stay safe. Can you let the others know?
Milo
Will do.
I grab my coat. “Let’s go.”
The streets are empty and only one car sits in the small lot of the convenience store. Heat rises from the tailpipe, showing up like smoke in the frigid air. A young guy wearing a red clerk’s vest with The Stop Along logo shuts the car door and reaches the front entrance at the same time we do.
“Sorry, we’re closed. I came out to warm up my car while I finish cleaning up. The gas station two streets over is staying open all night.”
We’re too late. “Can we come in for a minute?” I ask. “I don’t need to buy anything. He just…” This isn’t the easiest thing to explain. “Look, it’s a long story but he needs to look around inside. We’ll be quick.”
The suspicion on his face is fair. He’s young and working alone at night in a place where a man with his job died not a year ago. “No, sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Oliver doesn’t let him finish. He yanks open the glass door and stalks inside. His determination in the face of the fear I know he’s feeling is admirable. It’s also likely to get us arrested.
“I’m sorry. We only need a few minutes, please.”
“I’m calling the police.” He retreats toward his car, pulling his phone out.
Damn it. I’m concerned with getting arrested, of course, but that’s not what makes me hesitate with my hand on the door handle.
Alden died here. It isn’t a place I wanted to come again. I’ve never quite understood the common practice of decorating the spot where a loved one died with flowers or crosses, like you see along the side of the highway. To each their own way of grieving, but the cemetery seems like a much more peaceful choice. This place holds only violence and tragedy.
Alright, I can do this. It won’t take long for officers to show up. We’ll probably only have one chance at this. Oliver is in there and he needs me. The warmth of the store washes over me, making my cold face tingle. The layout isn’t exactly as I remember it, but it’s close.
Oliver stands in the middle of the front aisle beside a large trashcan that’s been dragged out. His eyes are scrutinizing as they sweep from the register area to the rear of the store. It’s silent. The local radio station that always plays from the ancient sound system has been turned off. The guy closing the place probably prefers the quality of his earbuds over those tinny sounding speakers.
Was that what Alden died listening to? Low quality top forties pop music? My morbid thoughts can’t help but surface and force me to picture him lying on the floor, bleeding.
Dying.
