MELISSA STOOD AT THE DOOR and peered into the bedroom. The light filtered in from the window and illuminated the space, giving it a glow that was absent in the rest of the house.
The walls were freshly painted in a pale blue color, accented by white trim and floorboards. The wood floor had been washed clean but still showed signs of age. On opposite walls there were twin beds, made with military precision, each with a solid color comforter. She walked over and sat down on the one below the window, the place she used to sleep. The bed was not her original, for it must have rotted out like the rest of the house furnishings, but it stood in place of it. A monument to a time long past. She lay down and gazed up at the window, a faint memory of moonlight passing through glass in a toddler’s eyes.
She sat back up and stared over to the other bed. It was precisely where her brother had slept. In her mind’s eye she could envision him sitting there, playing with Hot Wheels cars, driving them over the foot of the bed in mock races.
The room had been restored to a reflection of its past. The paint, the cleaning, the placement of objects on the walls, they were all done by an unskilled but purposeful hand. A museum of the past. A memorial.
Melissa thought about Michael. Had he restored this room as a trophy for past sins or as a penance? An effort to bring back into being something that he had destroyed?
A memorial to a family shattered beyond repair?
Family.
Was Michael still family? The idea came to Melissa as an epiphany. For most of her life Michael had been the focal point of all her rage, anger, and spite. He hadn’t been flesh and blood, merely an idea. But now, he’d suddenly become real. Flesh and blood. But more so. Her flesh and blood. Flesh and blood that had reconstructed this room and was living as a pauper, isolated from the world.
What was this feeling mushrooming inside her?
Empathy?
Empathy for the person who selfishly destroyed her family?
But if she were unable to empathize for family, what did that make her?
The days of her childhood had blended together, and Melissa could not recall the last time that she had slept in this spot. Her head began to swim with conflicting emotions until a haunting feeling of nostalgia started forming in her gut.
She shot up from the bed, ran to the hallway, and out the front door.
She could not open herself up to sentimentality.
The room was but a mere imitation of a past life. That time was long gone. It had been violently taken from her, and she had come to Coldwater to execute the justice owed her. Romanticizing her youth did nothing toward accomplishing that goal.
Melissa walked back to her car and opened the door. She reached down and placed the gun under the seat. She got in, started it up, and pulled back onto the dirt road. In her rearview mirror she saw a flash of light, sunlight on metal, and saw a truck parked back in the brush. She stopped the car and stared. It hadn’t been there when she pulled in. Suddenly her nerves coursed with vibrant energy as she realized how incredibly alone she was out here in the boondocks.
She could see two shadows sitting in the cab.
Reaching under her front seat, she pulled the pistol out and held it on her lap, her eyes on the vehicle lurking behind her. She put her foot on the gas and crept down the road. The truck didn’t appear to move at first, but after she had gone a bit, it pulled onto the dirt and started following her.
Melissa slid the gun under her left leg, put both hands on the wheel, and slammed on the accelerator.