What kind of place is this?
It’s more than just a cabin, so much more.
I expected to walk into a small living room. Instead, I’m standing inside a classroom, complete with a blackboard on one end and five desks and chairs facing it. The words written on the board in white chalk catch my attention.
Porky, bacon, big blob, fatty.
I can guess what the words mean, but it’s too much to think about right now.
The mannequins demand more of my attention. Some of them are sitting at the desks, some are standing. All of them are female, dressed in black and white school uniforms.
Sitting at a desk near the blackboard is another mannequin with mousy brown hair in an updo. Instead of a uniform, she’s dressed in a red cotton dress with puffy sleeves. She must be the teacher.
My hand flies to my mouth, and my stomach clenches.
What’s going on? What exactly am I looking at?
Goosebumps scatter across the skin of my arms. I rub them away as I would the cold.
The need to get the hell out is overwhelming, but I can’t leave now. I need to find what I came for.
The person who put the room together planned it to perfection. There are books, stationery, and bags hanging from chairs and tables. The teacher even has a handbag on her desk.
It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m hoping it’s not Alex’s handiwork. After spending so many years together, I can’t imagine he would create something so macabre. And how could he have done all this? He only returned to the ranch recently.
It has to be Marcy. But why?
Whatever her reasons, she did an outstanding job. The scene has an intense effect on me. I shudder when I feel the same discomfort I experienced in school. I can almost hear the echo of the school bell and the voice of the principal on the intercom.
I shake my head to bring myself back to the present.
What if it was Alex? What if it was a way for him to recreate his school days? But why would he do that? He hated school as much as I did.
How well do you know your husband?
I want to ignore the little voice inside my head, but it has a point. The events that unfolded in the past hours and days make me feel as though I don’t know him at all.
This could be my chance to get to know exactly what kind of man I married.
Like someone possessed, I yank out drawers from desks and search every nook and corner, emptying flower pots and rifling through school bags.
I flip open folders on the teacher’s desk and flip through every book on the bookshelf leaning against one wall. Finally, I grabbed the handbag on the teacher’s desk and rummage through it. I find makeup, a small mirror, and a notebook.
The more I search, the more my stomach twists. This is not right. This is the work of someone who needs psychiatric help.
I can’t find an explanation in the classroom, so I stand in the middle of the room, gazing at the steps. From where I’m standing, I can see a bed upstairs, covered with a mustard yellow comforter.
Holding my breath, I head up the worn wooden stairs, one creaky step at a time. Alex’s old cologne no longer turns my stomach, but I’m still not able to breathe easily.
The room upstairs resembles a dorm room. I want to be surprised, but after seeing what’s downstairs, I’m not. I get straight to work, turning everything upside down.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t know what I’ll find. I search anyway. I shake out the comforter and the bed sheet. I search inside pillowcases and the desk drawer. I run my hands underneath the furniture.
Finally, I find a rusty, heavy-looking box pushed deep under the bed. It’s locked, but the small padlock looks weak enough to break. I pull out the box and sit on the bed with it, scanning the room for something heavy to hit the lock with.
My eyes land on a flowerpot by the window. I grab it and kneel on the floor. Then I lay the box on its side with the padlock resting on the wood.
