Hiding out in an abandoned shack from their abusive pasts, Allison and Ethan Bryson entertain themselves by imaging all sorts of curious characters near the frozen lake outside their hut.
But after Allison witnesses a man murder a young woman and di...
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Owen wanted to get to know us? The problem with that was there's a lot we didn't know about ourselves. Life seemed to have hit pause since leaving Mr. Bryson. We haven't gone forward much or backward in years. Almost like we were in some sort of limbo, waiting for something to mix up the dreary monotony.
Then Owen shows up like an answer to our prayers, but the beginning of a nightmare. Speaking to him and having him in our presence was more than a roller coaster ride of emotions, he had the ability to skyrocket my emotions to a high I've never experienced and quickly crash them within the same sentence.
We needed to know more about him.
"That bandana is a gift from my dad, you know," he said, nodding to the blue cloth around my neck. "Before he went to prison, we were here, building this place. He wanted me to keep that bandana to remember him."
I untied the bandana, slipped it from my neck, and handed it to him. "Here."
He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "No, keep it. I don't have any use for it."
"Well, I don't want it anymore." The thought of using someone's memento for silly games didn't sit right with me, so I tossed it on the bed next to him.
He glanced at it and shrugged. "So ... when did you guys find the place?"
Ethan had that look of contemplation on his face. The look that said he didn't know how honest he should be in the moment. "Four years ago."
"Four years?!" Owen's eyes widened, stealing our attention. "I was almost eighteen the last time I was here, and that was ... a little over four years ago. Wow! We could have met each other that year!"
"I'm glad we didn't." I stared at my shoes to avoid his expression at my insult.
Owen snorted. "Feisty, isn't she?" He stood and strolled around the small room, tinkering with items as he explored. Stopping near the bookshelf, he picked up the hatchet, sneered at it and placed it back on the shelf.
"What are you doing?" I looked to him, to the rusted hatchet, and back to him again.
"Just wondering if you guys have something to eat?" He rubbed his belly and groaned. "I'm starving."
After sharing what was left of smoked trout, making it stretch by preparing it as a soup, we doused the fire in the pit before the smoke gathered more unwanted attention. To keep warm and stay out of the snow we made ourselves comfortable inside the wooden walls of the hut.
I sat in the chair by the window, Ethan took the corner of the bed, while Owen relaxed on the floor with his back to the wall.
"I'm named after my father, Owen Bradley Etling." A proud smile formed on his lips, confusing me as I thought of his father sitting in an identical position but behind bars.
I brought my knees to my chest and secured the blanket around my shoulders. "What did your dad do?"
"Nothing worthwhile." Owen shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "At least, that's what Mother always said." His tone change when mother left his lips.
