Page 24 of Knowing Amelia

Next on my list: tools. I’m going to need something to help me remove the carpet. I search the porch and backyard for a tool shed, a toolbox… something that might hold some kind of sharp, metal, manly object. I find Amelia’s ancient vacuum but no tools.

Ugh. Didn’t the woman need a screwdriver every now and then? And then I spot it. Amelia’s sharp style cutlery sitting atop her counter. Pulling the butcher knife from its slot, I admire the long blade. This should do the trick.

I inhale a breath and recall that day so long ago. I close my eyes and envision Amelia on the floor, down on her knees, her body rocking. Then, blinking my eyes open, I retrace those steps to the center of that odious carpet in the middle of her dining room.

I push her little table and chairs out of the way and kneel down. “I can do this. It’s just carpet.” Then I stab. Only… that big ol’ butcher knife doesn’t make it very far into Amelia’s rug. I jimmy it in as far as I can, and then I saw. But the thing does not want to saw or slice or give at all. If only I could get more than the tip of the knife into the carpet. Ten minutes of work and I have a two-inch hole and a pool of sweat forming beneath my arms to show for it.

Maybe scissors? I have a hole, minuscule as it may be. Maybe the carpet will cut now. After a quick search in the kitchen, I find a pair. Forcing an inch of the shear’s wedge into my pathetic hole, I squeeze the handles—and break Amelia’s kitchen scissors in half.

Ugh!

Not only that, but my hole is no bigger than it was before.

Growling, I glare at the floor. It’s being a jerk on purpose. “This isn’t supposed to be this difficult!” I grind my teeth and stab the beige dust trap again.

My hands ache, and I haven’t even been trying that long. I need a break. I need dinner—my growling stomach agrees. After all my searching and crying and attempts at sawing, dinnertime has come and gone. I haven’t gone shopping in the last twenty-four hours, so Amelia’s house is still out of food. And I have no car to get me to the store.

To appease my grumpy stomach, I open the refrigerator again. Still bare—except for that half gallon of expired milk. The little market can’t be too far away. I could walk.

On a mission, and in need of a distraction, I march to the exit. I’m praying the carpet-cutting fairies will come for a visit while I’m gone. With the thought, I swing the front door open to⁠—

“Logan.” I jolt in surprise.

His hand raised to knock falls to his side. “I saw your lights on.” He grins. “You stayed.”

“Yeah.” I can’t help but beam back. “I couldn’t leave yet.”

“So, are you hungry?” He holds up a foil-wrapped plate in his left hand.

My new neighbor might be a legit saint.

“Yes. You’re so kind to bring me something.” I step back and Logan comes inside.

“Should I take this to the kitchen?” His brows lift in question.

I nod. “Sure.”

Leading the way, he says, “I hoped you’d consider my offer, but—” Stopping short, I run into the back of him; the man is a solid brick wall. He grunts. “Wow.” A low chuckle rumbles from his throat, but he doesn’t look at me. Nope, he’s staring ahead. “This carpet has upset you, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, um…” I twist my hands together while Logan studies my “tools” next to that second-rate hole.

“I was just, um, taking your suggestion. You know? I want to get the carpet out, so I thought⁠—”

“That you’d kill it?”

“No,” I say, the pitch of my voice too high.

“Yeah.” He eyes my pathetic hole. “Looks more like torture, or maybe you were just threatening it.”

“Ha. Ha.” I bend over to pick up the butcher knife and broken scissors. “I guess you could say I’m not exactly sure how to go about this.”

He laughs again, but he isn’t mocking me. “Come on. Let’s eat, and then I’ll help you do this right.”

“You don’t have to do that.” I’ve been picturing making my Amelia discovery alone. If nothing lies beneath this dumb carpet, I might cry. I’d rather not make a spectacle of myself in front of my new friend.

“I can’t sit around next door waiting for you to slice your hand open or even let you murder perfectly good carpet. Believe me, there’s a much easier way.”

“Well, maybe a little help getting started wouldn’t hurt.” I do need a new idea. My current plan is making me question every choice I’ve made in the last twenty-four hours.