Forgotten, p.1
Forgotten, page 1
FORGOTTEN
ALEX SIGMORE
Dark Woods Press
Copyright © 2023 by Alex Sigmore
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First edition ebook ISBN 978-1-957536-04-0
Paperback ISBN 978-1-957536-05-7
To those that love, unconditionally.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
His Perfect Crime
Emily Slate Series
About the Author
Chapter One
Winter
At almost five o’clock the doorbell rings.
I’m not expecting anyone, though I’d left my work clothes on as I’d been patiently waiting for the mail to arrive so I could finally retrieve it, change into something more comfortable, and finally relax. I was in for the night, and the day had been more than exhausting enough. After all the shit that had gone down with the Williamson project, I’d left work early on the excuse of a headache and come home wanting nothing more than to grab my favorite pajamas and scrounge up some good wine.
But when the clang comes out of nowhere, I’m ashamed to admit I jump. Felton installed one of those doorbells that rings through the house like the Hunchback is working overtime and it gets me every time. After chastising myself for being so jumpy, I roll my eyes, wondering who could be darkening my doorstep on a Friday afternoon when all I want is a moment of peace to myself. Felton hadn’t installed the surveillance cameras since they “clashed with the architecture”, so it was either ignore whoever was on the other side of the door and hope they went away, or gather up what energy I have left for interacting with people and do the decent thing. I almost let it go, but I need to make a good impression on the neighbors, especially if I’ll be living here full time now. At least I can use it as an excuse to go retrieve the mail.
I slip on Felton’s old sneakers he’d left haphazardly by the door, unable to keep a smile from forming across my face. These are my fiancée’s sneakers, no longer my boyfriend’s. I wouldn’t call myself a sentimental person, but I am a bit of a romantic, so I notice the little things. And soon enough I’ll be putting on my husband’s shoes at the last minute when I need to meet someone unexpected at the door. It’s been a long road, baby, but we’ve made it.
I take a deep breath to reset myself, plaster a fake smile across my lips and open the door, praying this interaction doesn’t take long. But instead of someone standing on our doorstep, there’s nothing but a small brown package leaning up against the timber. Left by the mailman no doubt. I drop the smile, relieved I don’t have to interact with anyone else today, even if it had only been one of the neighbors needing to borrow something. People still did that, right?
I can’t help but notice he left it leaning on to the more “traditional” side of the house. I’m not an architect, I’m an engineer, so my concern lies in the practical. Felton…he’s the artist out of the two of us. And he calls this house an architectural “dream”. His words. If I recall correctly, it’s classic English Tudor merged with post-modern impressionism. You’d think the result would be an ugly mish-mash of glass and wood, metal and shingles, but somehow Felton fused them perfectly and made it beautiful. The door itself is set into a small alcove with cross timber over wattle on one side and glass on the other, the entrance sitting between them at the end of a short path winding down from the driveway. He told me when he first found this house there had been nothing here but an old Tudor-style home built sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century. It didn’t even have an indoor bathroom and had fallen into neglect and disrepair. But slowly, over the course of two years, he managed to transform it into the magnificent swan it is today, the pride of the local community and the recipient of the AIA Connecticut Design Award for best single-family residence in the state. The award had made him something of a minor celebrity in our little town and, oddly enough, was what first brought him to my attention. So you could say, in a way, this house was what brought us together. It’s appropriate this is where we’ll be starting our lives together.
Ignoring the package, I walk down to the driveway and then finally to the mailbox itself, where I retrieve a small stack of flyers, advertisements, and what I suspect are at least two bills. We’ve only been living together a short time and I haven’t had a chance to learn about all his financial habits yet. The freezing air whips across my exposed face and I shiver as I make my way back up the long drive, the wind blowing in short, but powerful gusts. A cold front moved in last night in the middle of what had been a very pleasant start to spring, bringing with it the chance of snow on all the newly opened flower and tree buds.
Even though I know it’s silly, it still makes me sad to think about the trees that had worked so hard to begin blooming, only to have the cold snap strike, threatening to kill everything all over again. Trees are hearty beings, they’ll get over it, but I can’t help but wonder if trees and flowers could think, would they get as exasperated about the weather like we do? Would they lament the cold, always hoping for the warmer days, or would they take each day as it came, knowing it was all part of a necessary cycle?
God, I must be more tired than I thought. Here I am about to freeze my ass off worrying about the trees and plants. I eye them carefully as I make my way back up the driveway. If they had their way, I’d be nothing more than food for them, their roots feeding on my rotting corpse.
Winter! Stop it! You need to get ahold of yourself. I take a deep breath, bend down and grab the small brown package leaning up against the entryway, and make my way back inside. The security system beeps twice as I open and close the door again. I kick Felton’s sneakers off and immediately trash the junk mail, setting the two bills aside to leave in Felton’s—wait, no—our home office later. I’m about to leave the package as well since it’s addressed to him, but I can’t help but notice the stylish calligraphy on the front. Perhaps calligraphy is too generous a word, but the writing is almost certainly that of a woman and, it seems to me, contains a bit of a personal touch to it. Maybe it’s in the way the end of the “F” in Felton’s name almost forms a heart.
I’m being ridiculous. I toss the package on top of the rest of the mail, cursing myself for being so goddamn paranoid. I don’t do that, not anymore. Cammie would have called me on it if she’d been here. I can’t forget all the progress I’ve made and the glowing endorsement Dr. Hobart gave me on our last session. He said I’d come a long way and that as long as I made intentional decisions, I could live whatever kind of life I wished. One free from what caused me so much trouble in the past.
Still, it’s hard to deny some woman sent my fiancée a package. I know most of his friends and family, who would do such a thing and leave no return address? A prank, possibly? The postmark was from the Brighton post office, not more than five miles away.
I pick up the package and shake it, feeling its heft. It’s dense, like a book. But not like one of those coffee table books he’s always going on about, this is shaped like a regular-sized book. He doesn’t even read books, not paper ones anyway. Most of Felton’s books are electronic. Plus, if it had come from a store, there would be an indication of that on the cover.
Winter. Stop it. You’re better than this. It’s Felton’s package, he’ll deal with it when he gets home and then you don’t have to worry about it anymore. You’re being possessive and paranoid.
I put the package down, resigned not to think about it anymore until he comes home. But as I walk away, I can feel it watching me, tempting me to unwrap its secrets. The packaging isn’t held together by more than a couple of pieces of scotch tape. I could…
I rush back over and before I can stop myself, peel the top edge open, allowing me to see into the package itself. It is indeed a book. My heart does a little flutter at the confirmation, and I manage to slip the paperback out of the brown wrapping without ripping the packaging.
“What the…?”
I stare at the cover a minute, trying to understand what it is I’m seeing. If this really is a book it’s got the most god-awful cover I’ve ever seen. I’m no art snob, but even I know this reeks of someone’s poor photoshop skills and a home printer. “Simple Desires by Miranda Maryweather?”
The title reminds me of one of those trashy novels my grandmother used to keep on her bedroom shelf, but the image is nothing more than purple mountains set against a darkening sky. Is this a prank? The book itself is thick enough to be a novel, but it doesn’t smell like a new book should. It has the musk of age to it. The back of the cover isn’t much better. There’s no image of Miranda Maryweather herself, just a brief description of what the book is about. No barcode either, which means this is someone’s pet project. But the image that wraps around cuts off in a black strip, not extending all the way to the edge. The strange part about it is if this is someone’s craft project, the spine is actually glued like a real book. It’s the only thing that seems to have any quality to it.
I check the wrapping again to make sure I haven’t missed a note or explanation as to why this has showed up on my doorstep, but there’s nothing inside. I flip through the first few pages, half expecting them all to be blank only to find its laid out like any other book would be. Title page, table of contents and…a dedication page.
As my eyes scan the dedication my heart picks up again and I realize opening this package might have been the smartest decision I’ve made all day.
To my best supporter, F. I love you.
F.
F for Felton? It has to be; why else address the book to him?
I have to take a few deep breaths. Think. Who could have sent this? A fan? Someone who saw Felton’s name in relation to the award? Maybe some crazed person out there looking for attention? But there’s something about the dedication that doesn’t sit well with me. My best supporter. Who is he supporting?
Oh, Dr. Hobart would not like this. This is exactly what I’m not supposed to be doing, but look what I’ve found! If I hadn’t gone snooping, I might have never known about this secret admirer.
Winter, remember you’re not to make any assumptions. You have to communicate with those you love, not assume.
Right, right, I know. He’s right of course. But the damage is done now. I might as well keep going. It isn’t like this could get much worse. I turn a few pages to the first chapter, intrigued about what kind of support my fiancée has given Ms. Maryweather and I have to stop myself from laughing out loud as I read the opening line.
“It was a dark and stromy night,”
“Nope!” I slam the book closed, laughing and shaking my head in disappointment. Stromy? Not even a spell-check, Miranda? Maybe I don’t need to read this thing after all. Whoever Miranda Maryweather is, she’s obviously an amateur. Even I know better than to start off by copying one of the most famous openings in history. And if I were to do it, at least I’d have the decency to spell check myself! This is obviously some nutjob and I’ve already spent way too much time on something that isn’t even an issue. I carefully slip the book back into the book-sized package and gingerly fold the ends up. Felton won’t even be able to tell. I place the package back on top of the other bills that came in the mail. I’m about to leave it all for future Winter to deal with, but then remember.
In the corner of the large room lined by windows on the north side sits a crate full of shipping tubes for Felton’s designs. It takes me a second to dig through everything, but after a moment I retrieve the small roll of packing tape wedged into a corner of one cabinet. At least I can tape it back up better than Miranda had, so someone who isn’t supposed to look can’t go snooping.
After carefully taping the end back up and replacing the tape, I take one last look at the package and then put it out of my mind, focusing instead on my warm pajamas and that glass of pinot noir.
Chapter Two
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get those words out of my head.
To my best supporter.
I love you.
I love you. There’s one thing I’m damn sure of: “F” had better not be for Felton. Otherwise there are gonna be lots of other “F’s” thrown around. Who would dedicate a book to him? I grab my phone and google Miranda Maryweather in the greater Connecticut area, but nothing comes up. Pen name. Has to be. He hadn’t had a girlfriend for at least five years before we got together, that much I know. After everything I’ve been through, it always comes out on the first date. Sometimes that’s not a good thing, but then again, it really weeded out those who couldn’t handle it. It’s just one area where I’m not flexible.
I huff in frustration and take my wine glass to the kitchen, pouring the remainder into the sink. I’ve lost any taste for it. The kitchen is located in the modern part of the house, which means it’s mostly glass and steel and looks out on the woods in the backyard and at the long, winding driveway out the front. I can barely make out the streetlights at the end of the drive, but the path lighting along the driveway is visible enough. The neighbors are just a little too far to see from here, but only a five-minute walk. It’s one of the things I like best about this place, secluded but not cut off from everything. It has all the appearances of an isolated home in the middle of nowhere but is quite close to modern society; all part of the illusion of extra luxury.
It’s the same illusion I strive for in my own designs. Civil engineering isn’t quite as revered as architecture, but it still has its own artistry. Simple lines, functional supports, aesthetically pleasing to the viewer’s eye without them knowing exactly why. And since I can’t get that damn book off my mind, I might as well work on something. There will be no relaxing until Felton returns home from work and explains himself.
Just as I turn away from the view of the driveway, movement catches my eye. It’s brief, but I could swear there is something out there. Someone. Dusk has settled and darkness has seeped into the air, making it difficult to see. But one of the lights illuminating the driveway cut out for a moment as someone or something crossed in front of it. I turn back and peer out, trying to make out what I saw. The night is perfectly still. I scan, hard, not wanting to move for fear that my movements in the house might somehow obscure my vision. Then I see it, a dark figure, standing just at the end of the drive, beyond one of the large stone pillars that flanks the entrance.
“There you are,” I whisper.
My first instinct is that it’s a man, in a long coat that almost brushes the ground. But I can’t tell if he’s facing the house or away from me. Something inside tells me it’s the former. That he’s watching this place, that he’s watching me. I snatch my cell phone from my back pocket.
“Hey Janet?” I ask before the voice on the other end can say hello.
“Win? Is that you?” the elderly voice answers on the other end.
“Hey, yeah, it’s me,” I reply, trying not to be impatient with her. She is almost sixty, after all.
“How are you, dear?”
“Good, good. Are you at home?” I ask, not blinking for fear of losing sight of the figure.
“I just got home. Is everything okay?”
“Can you do me a favor and look out towards our place? Do you see someone standing at the end of our driveway?”
“Someone at the end—what’s going on?” Janet asks, her voice cracking a bit. Janet is pretty tough, but still. She’s in her sixties. It’s not like I expect her to just head on out and ask this person what they’re doing at the end of our drive. This was why she’d been trying so hard to meet all the neighbors. It was important to have a community for situations just like this. Well, maybe not exactly. It wasn’t as if I’d ever expected to see a creeper standing at the end of my driveway, but situations where we can watch out for each other. I don’t want to be one of those people who lives twenty yards from four other families and don’t know any of their names. People are already too cut off as it is, and I refuse to be a part of it. Janet, for all her flaws, is the neighbor I trust the most. I haven’t garnered all the details yet, but I know the woman is single, recently divorced from her husband of almost thirty years, and sharp as a whip. If someone is being a peeping tom or something similar, I’m pretty damn sure Janet would go out there and beat them with her own shoes if she had to.
