After the excitement of this morning, everything seems dull.
The sound of Knox’s heavy boots meets my ears before he comes into view. When he enters the space from the hallway at the back of the bar, he’s rifling through a stack of mail.
Knox doesn’t look up as he weaves through the high-top tables and walks up to the bar. “Hey, Benny,” Knox greets.
“Hello to you, too, Mr. Montgomery,” Benny returns. His use of our last name is supposed to be mocking, but we know he doesn’t have any real ill will behind it. Benny is just a grumpy drunk.
Knox turns to me. “Is Camden here?”
“When is Camden not here?”
Knox just gives me a blank look. My brother is a no-nonsense type of person, which gives me all the more reason to throw my nonsense at him.
“He’s in the kitchen, as always,” I reply, giving up on my jab.
Camden is a nice kid. I say “kid,” but he’s in his twenties. To me and Knox, though, he’s a kid. He’s worked for us since he graduated from high school. His dad kicked him out for his “lifestyle choices.” That’s just code for, “I’m a bigoted asshole and want to save my reputation.” Camden came to us scared and alone. We gave him a job, and Pops rented him the guesthouse.
Thankfully, the kid knows how to cook and is a master at it. He’s only gotten better over the years. We probably should have interviewed him before hiring.
Oh well.
Knox walks through the kitchen door behind the bar, probably to ask Camden to make him a sandwich.
I return to making myself look busy by wiping the counter with my rag and rearranging the glasses for the hundredth time. Before I can mop the floor again, Knox comes storming back from the kitchen without any food in his hands. Instead, there’s a single envelope in his fist. His face is contorted with rage.
“With me. Now,” he demands. His jaw is tense, and his hands are shaking, letting me know that he isn’t joking. Not that he ever does.
I follow him through the back hall and into the office. We only have one desk in here and only need one desk. This room is for show, so it’s bare. Even the filing cabinet only holds the minimum. We only come in here when we don’t want to be heard. Our real office is downstairs.
“Look.” Knox shoves the wrinkled envelope into my hands.
I squint and notice it’s addressed to both of us. In the top right corner, I find who and where it came from.
Amos Montgomery
815 12thSt
Huntsville, TX 77348
My vision blurs and is tinged with red. “What kind of sick joke is this?”
“I don’t think it’s a joke,” Knox answers coldly.
I toss the unopened letter on the desk and cross my arms. “What could he possibly have to say? He killed Scarlett. It was him. There’s no convincing me otherwise.”
Knox’s fists clench at his sides. “I know. I feel the same way.”
“Then why does it feel like you want to open it?” I accuse him.
“Because they never found her body. Hasn’t that always bothered you? He had her clothes in the bed of his pickup, and there was blood in the cab, but the police didn’t find her body.” His stare is piercing.
I glance away, unable to look him in the eye. He knows it bothers me. We lost Scarlett over twenty years ago. We’ve mourned and moved on, but there’s always been that little voice in the back of my mind that reminds me that Scarlett’s body is still out there somewhere.
Police found a bloody shovel that had traces of dirt in the bed of his truck as well, but Amos never admitted to her murder.
“If you want to open it, that’s on you. I don’t want to know what he has to say all this time later.” I stomp out of the office, leaving my brother behind. I know his curiosity will get the best of him. Amos’s words might crush Knox, and I’ll be there for him when that happens. I’ll always be there for him, just like he will be for me. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let Amos’s words eat away at me.
As I return to my post, light pours into the bar from the front door, upsetting the damp atmosphere. An alluring figure is illuminated in the doorway. Even though I’m squinting, I’m able to make out rounded hips, flowing hair, and long legs.
