Before I Forget Again

Ten years ago, I sat in the witness stand and told the court my beloved Uncle Arthur was a monster.

My testimony sent him away for twenty years and made my father Robert a hero.

For a decade, I lived inside the perfect world my father built around me — safe and warm and suffocating. Then one afternoon, digging through boxes in the basement, I found Buster's old collar. My golden retriever. The dog I'd made myself forget.

The memory hit like a freight train.

The man in the dark had clamped his hand over my mouth, and I could smell him now — peppermint and cologne, thick and choking. I saw Buster lunge at him. Saw the man's boot connect with the dog's ribs.

But Uncle Arthur was deathly allergic to dogs. He couldn't get near Buster without his throat closing up.

If it wasn't Arthur that night — then who the hell was it?

Amy's POV

October in suburban Boston, and the air already had a bite to it.

Next week, I'd be heading to Harvard. As the daughter of Robert Davis, the city's chief justice, my life seemed picture-perfect. Except for what happened when I was eight.

At the breakfast table, Dad set down his coffee cup and glanced at me. "Amy, how about you go through your old stuff in the basement today? Toss anything you don't want anymore."

His gold ring caught the morning light—left ring finger. He'd worn it for ten years straight, ever since Mom died. A memorial, he always said.

"Okay, Dad."

I nodded, the perfect daughter.

To everyone else, we were the model pair. Just the two of us, making it work.

Ten years ago, Mom died from her illness. That same year, something terrible happened to me—my own uncle, Arthur Davis, assaulted me on a night when thunder shook the house. Dad didn't hesitate. He put his own brother behind bars himself, sent him to a max security prison.

After breakfast, I pushed open the heavy wooden door to the basement.

The air down here smelled like mothballs and decades-old dust.

I headed to the far corner where a few cardboard boxes sat stacked, labeled in black marker: "Amy—Before Age 8."

I rummaged through old dolls and faded picture books.

My fingers hit something cold. Metal.

I shoved aside some old clothes and pulled it out. A wide red nylon collar, worn at the edges, with a tarnished brass tag hanging from it. Engraved letters:

Buster.

It hit me like a freight train. My pulse went wild, blood pounding in my ears.

Buster. My golden retriever. My best friend, ten years ago.

I sank down onto the dusty floor, both hands clenched around that collar.

The memories I'd buried for a decade came flooding back, triggered by this worn piece of nylon and brass.

I remembered that night.

Thunder. Loud.

My bedroom door opened. A tall shadow stepped inside.

I thought it was Dad, but then a hand clamped over my mouth.

I smelled it—sharp, overwhelming mint mixed with expensive cologne. The rough hand had something cold and heavy on it, something that pressed hard against my cheek.

I remembered Buster by my bed. He went crazy, barking and lunging at the man, and got kicked hard into the dresser. He didn't move after that.

"Not a sound, Amy." His voice was low in my ear.

The next day, police came. Dad held me while I cried. A therapist walked me through it, helped me identify Uncle Arthur. In court, I sobbed and said—

"It was Uncle Arthur. He locked me in the room..."

Wait.

WAIT.

My eyes snapped open. I was gasping for air, cold sweat soaking through my shirt.

Uncle Arthur was a carpenter. He always smelled like pine shavings, nothing else. He never wore cologne. He was too broke to own a watch, let alone a heavy ring.

And the killer detail—Uncle Arthur had a severe, life-threatening allergy to dogs.

Every time he visited, he had to pop antihistamines before even stepping inside. He could never, EVER come near my room, because it was covered in Buster's fur.

If he'd spent an entire hour in my room that night, if he'd struggled with Buster—

He would've been dead before he made it out.

Anaphylaxis would've killed him on the spot.

But in my testimony, in the police files, Buster's existence had been completely erased. Shortly after, Dad told me Buster had run away.

I stared at the brass tag.

If it wasn't Uncle Arthur, then who? Who was the man with the mint smell and the heavy ring—

"Amy, honey, you've been down there a while."

Dad's voice floated down from the top of the stairs.

I jerked like I'd been electrocuted, shoving the collar deep into my hoodie pocket.

I looked up. Dad's tall silhouette stood backlit at the top of the staircase.

"I'm—I'm almost done, Dad." I forced my voice steady.

"Alright, sweetheart. Just don't overdo it, okay?"

He started down a few steps. The dim light caught half his face, a gentle smile playing at his lips.

But suddenly, that smile looked all wrong.

Foreign.

Cold, even.

My gaze dropped to his left hand, to that thick ring on his finger—

In that moment, everything inside me went cold.