Page 129 of Mess With Me

While Chester bangs around in the bathroom, echoing Griff’s hammering outside, I peer at the lone framed photo hanging on the wall. It’s a black and white shot of an older man standing on the banks of what looks to be the Quince River, holding a fishing rod.

He’s too far away to see his face, but even if he wasn’t, his hat’s pulled down low, obscuring most of it. That must be Chester’s grandfather. I squint at the photo, but he looks to be alone. It’s too bad—I would have liked to see Chester as a boy. It’s strange, actually, that there aren’t more photos of him or his grandpa, seeing as he grew up in this house.

“Son of a bitch,” Chester mutters through the door.

Instantly I’m outside it. “You okay?”

“You still there?”

Relief runs through me. It doesn’t sound like he’s injured. “Should I get Griff?”

“Hell no you shouldn’t. I still know how to use my damn willy.”

I grimace. “Ew, Chester!”

“Scram, girlie. Go find something to do.”

I look toward the end of the hall, feeling curious now. “Can I look around?”

“So long as you don’t come in here.”

I roll my eyes. “So crabby.”

The hallway has two doors in it besides the bathroom. One I can tell is Chester’s bedroom, because the door’s ajar and there’s a single mussed-up bed with a bedside table stacked with books and a couple of bottles of pills.

I resist the urge to get downright nosy.

The second door’s at the end of the hall. But when I try it, the handle’s locked. I shake it, and something rattles up top: A corroded padlock that looks like it’s been there for years.

The door bangs open behind me, making me jump right off the ground.

I spin around. “Holy shit, Chester.”

He looks at me a moment, then over my shoulder.

“That was my grandfather’s room,” he says as he shuffles over to his bedroom.

I follow him to the entrance. “Why’s there a padlock on it?”

“It’s full of his stuff.”

I lean against his doorframe as he lies down in bed, looking impossibly frail. How is it possible that he was so sprightly just a few weeks ago?

“Have you ever been through his things?”

Chester plumps up his pillow under his head. “No reason to.”

I wonder for a moment if I’m being insensitive, then decide it’d be better to be rebuffed than not ask.

“I can do it with you sometime, if you like. Along with the rest of your house. You can decide what you want to keep and what—”

“No.”

His voice is surprisingly firm, his head even lifting off the pillow briefly.

“It might feel—”

“I said no, darling. My grandfather never wanted anyone touching his stuff. Made me swear never to go near the attic or the boxes in his room when I first got here.”

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