Peter climbed the narrow staircase that led to the attic slowly.Although he hadn't been up those stairs in over two decades, he remembered them. He was starting to remember a lot, possibly too much and it was scaring the daylights out of him.
"If you could put that box in the corner near the chimney," Mary Austin had asked him. "I'd really appreciate it. It's too heavy for me to lift. Please push it way back, as far out of sight as you can manage. I don't want anyone to find it."
Of course fifteen-year old Peter had been happy to help Mary out. She was pretty and friendly and had given him a ten dollar tip at Christmas even though he often threw her newspaper in front of the garage door instead of her front door. Peter had lifted the box and almost gasped. "What's in here, rocks?" he asked Mary.
Mary shook her head. "Just a lot of old junk. Thanks, Peter. Come down when you're through and I'll pour you a glass of milk to go with the chocolate cake I bought today."
Peter had been tucking the box into the corner as far as it could go when he heard a man's voice downstairs. He paused, not sure of what he should do. He strained his ears to listen. It sounded like the man was angry about something and he could hear Mary responding but he couldn't make out what she was saying.
Peter waited for Mary and her guest to stop talking. It would be way too embarrassing to go downstairs if they were having a fight. Peter hated it when people fought. It made his stomach hurt. After a few minutes the voices stopped and Peter figured that it would be all right to make his way back to the kitchen. He didn't really want milk and cake like some dorky kid but he hoped that maybe Mary would tip him. Peter was going out with his friends that night and it would be nice to have some extra cash on hand.
Walking back down the stairs he noticed how quiet the house had gotten. Maybe Mary and her guest had gone out? But wouldn't she have told him?
Peter paused in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. Something was wrong. The air felt different, heavier and he had an uneasy feeling, like someone was watching him. "Mary?" Peter called. "Are you still here?"
Outside a car door slammed. Looking out the window, Peter saw a dark haired man who was almost identical to Burt Reynolds backing down the driveway. The man was alone. So where was Mary? Peter stepped into the living room, heading for the side door. He stumbled over something on the rug as he moved. Looking down, Peter saw Mary lying on the carpet, her arms spread out and her eyes open. Peter stared. Mary didn't move. She looked strange. She looked...dead.
Walking backwards until he reached the door, Peter didn't make a sound. He knew he should tell someone, knew that he had to tell someone but he didn't. Instead he went outside, climbed on his bike and rode away. By the time he reached his own house two miles away, Peter had wiped the past hour out of his memory completely.
Peter stood in the same corner of the attic, his eyes glazing over as he stared down at the box. It was still there, covered with dust and apparently ignored for all these years. He reached for it, his hands trembling. He wasn't sure what was inside the box but he suspected that its contents would give the name of Mary's murderer, although Peter didn't really need to look. He already knew who had killed Mary Austin: his co-worker and colleague, Jim Waterston.
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