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Maybe that woman from the other day was his wife. That was a child’s room. I walked around the stairs and peaked inside. No signs of life. The room was tidy, and I could tell it belonged to a boy.
A little boy.
He was definitely under the age of twelve.
His twin bed was pushed up against the wall, the window across from it. I took a closer look at the toys in the bins—bulls and cowboys. I smiled at the thought of Mr. Langston’s little boy following in his footsteps.
The little cowboy…
Until you get his ranch taken away and Moonie digs up the dirt under this house.
I shook my head and made my way downstairs. The stairs ended in the foyer, a beautiful hunter green front door standing proudly in front of me. To the left of me was a living room.
I poked my head in there as well and called, “Hello?”
Nothing.
The large flat screen TV mounted above the wall above the fireplace was off. There was a navy-blue blanket thrown over the back of a cream sectional, a book—Harry Potter—resting on the round, dark, wooden, coffee table, a Pokémon bookmark sticking out of it. Mr. Langston’s son was about halfway through it. Again, no signs of life. There was a hallway that led to the back of the house, but it was dark.
Something told me not to go down there. Instead, I spun on my heel, crossing the foyer while wrapping my arms around myself as a shiver ran through me.
My breath caught as I came to a huge kitchen.
A—stunning—kitchen.
The kitchen every person dreams of. It was a kitchen that needed to be filled with happy memories and delicious smells.
It was L-shaped, with a huge island in the middle. The cabinets were a sage green, the countertops butcher block. There was a gas range stove, double ovens and a massive fridge. The countertops were empty, save for a few stray coffee mugs, and beer bottles.
There were three stools on my side of the island, one of them pulled out sightly, the place mat on the counter above littered with crumbs and a half empty cup of red juice.
Maybe they went into town.
I approached the farm sink, my eyes on the photo frame in the windowsill. The smiling face of a little boy, around seven years old or so was looking back at me. My heart strings tugged.
If the little boy had been standing alone in the photo, I would have assumed it was a childhood photo of Mr. Langston, who was standing beside the boy, looking down at him. His side profile was showing under the brim of his black cowboy hat, a small smile playing on his lips.
He was absolutelybeautiful.
His eyes were concealed in the shadow beneath the hat. The two of them stood side by side in front of a creek, dark green trees in the background, a tackle box beside Mr. Langston’s boot. His son was holding a fishing pole in one hand, a fish in the other. He was beaming, his little crooked smile warming my soul.
The smile I was wearing slowly faded away as I looked back around me, taking in the beautiful home.
Where was momma?
*Pow*
My entire body jolted at the sound, and fear latched onto me.
That was agunshot.
Holy—that was a gunshot!
Suddenly, I was moving, darting around the island and running into the foyer. On bare feet, I pulled the front door open, my heart beating out of my chest as I scanned the front porch.
Mr. Langston’s truck was right there, where he usually parked it.
All was quiet.
