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1
Constance
Every single day has gone exactly as planned since I moved back to Horace. All one-thousand-and-twenty-two of them.
Yes, I’ve kept count.
My alarm always goes off at a quarter past six and, by half past six, I’m in the shower. After getting dressed and “primped” (which consists of a minimal and begrudging application of makeup and blow drying my hair), I have a quick, uneventful breakfast of yogurt or toast—very rarely both. Before I head out the door, I leave Dad a note detailing his meals for the day and lay out clothes for him, lest he remain in his pajamas all day.
After that, I stop at Brewed Perfection for my daily rooibos. I’d buy the stuff in bulk if Kate, the owner and my childhood best friend, would just tell me where to get it, but she withholds that information from me, afraid I’d never stop by the store otherwise.
She’s right, but only because it would be an uneconomical use of my time if I already had my tea at home.
From there, I head down the street to the Horace Township History Museum, where I am the head curator and only full-time salaried employee.
On a normal day, on one that goes as planned, I unlock the front door and go about my usual business.
Today is not a normal day.
Because when I arrive at the museum, the front door is not only unlocked, but I also don’t have to twist the doorknob to know. The door is cracked open.
I frown. It wouldn’t be like me to leave it unlocked the night before. Yes, I know for a fact I locked it up because I had to pull the door a bit harder than usual since it has started swelling with the arrival of Spring.
So ifIdidn’t leave it unlocked, who did?
I throw open the door, slam it closed behind me, and survey the museum. It is not a big place—a former four-room schoolhouse all surrounding a wood paneled vestibule with an addition built on the back for the administrative offices and storage facilities, plus a basement where all the records are meticulously kept by me, of course.
Nothing is out of place. All the exhibits look untouched. There’s no glass shattered, nothing turned upside down.
“Hello?” I call out.
My voice echoes off the walls, but there is no greeting in return.
I wait a moment, trying to sense movement in the place. But I am alone. It is a sense that has become innate over the nearly three years I’ve been running this place. I am completely and utterly alone.
I go forward to the pedestal holding our donation box in the entryway. It is untouched, filled with dollar bills and coins, just as it was when I left yesterday.
A thief would just be simply cruel to steal from a museum that runs on donations. We don’t have money and when wedohave it, it goes immediately into upkeep or my measly salary.
Maybe I’m overthinking this. Maybe I’m having a false memory of locking up. I’ve definitely been a bit more flustered than normal; the town of Horace is preparing for its Bicentennial celebration in just a couple weeks and I’ve been doing my best to get the museum in perfect condition. Many of my waking hours are dedicated to perfecting my retrospective exhibit in room two.
Yes, I’m preoccupied. But a false memory? That’s silly. Iknowthat memory isn’t false; false memories occur in times of mental duress, illness, and trauma, none of which happened to me yesterday or any of the days prior.
I circle through the museum, stalking like an animal hunting its prey, except there’s nothing I can spot to sate me. The first room, where all the art is stowed, including a Tiffany lamp, is untouched. So is the second, which contains historical artifacts from Horace and the surrounding areas. The final room is a grab bag of whatever donations we receive and whatever exhibit I can whip up with access to our collections kept in the cold basement.
The fourth room is our bread and butter. The Prehistoric Wing. Filled with fossils and geological findings, many of which I’ve dug up in Horace myself. And the oldest deer skeleton in the Northwestern hemisphere, which is truly how we remain in operation.
Upon first glance, this room is also in good shape. It’d be difficult for a thief to get anything out of some fossils and bones anyway.
It’s the skeleton that catches my eye on the way back into the vestibule. I freeze, my clogs scuffing against the wooden floor.
The longer I stare at the skeleton, the morewrongit looks.
And that’s when I see it.
It’s missing its ribs. The wired armatures that hold the bones in place almost made me miss it.
But the ribs aregone.
