Darkness Sets In

Bailey

The Wilson house is fairly small, snug, and full of memories.

I love old houses like these. Every creak step and notch in the floorboards holds a memory, and for the Wilsons, that’s over three decades of marriage and cohabitation.

I run my finger over the squeaky clean mantle above the seldom used fireplace. I’m sure it’s just for show. I can’t imagine needing a fire ever in a state like Louisiana, but I sure do like the idea of cozying up in front of a fireplace and reading a book on a cold, snowy winter night.

I chuckle to myself at the thought of snow–having never seen it in real life–and go about my business.

I’ve set up a little workstation in the study off the living room, which is nothing more than a desk, a crammed bookshelf, and a large safe that takes up most of the tiny room. Robert likes to hunt and fish, and it shows. I eye the boxes of bullets, thankful they’re covered in years’ worth of dust, as I sit down at the cluttered desk and search for Robert’s file in