Collaboration 1, part 3

 [BL]

Gerald took one last look around the room before relenting to the inevitable task at hand. Satisfied it was still as seemingly empty as before, he grasped the door's handle with his free hand and gave it a firm tug. What was left of the hinges groaned in protest and flakes of rust drifted to the floor to join their brethren. He held the pistol at the ready and flung the door open wide.

“Memphis,” he cursed under his breath. “God dammit.”

* * * * *

“Gramps?”

Vega tossed her keys on the kitchen counter as she wrestled to close the back door with arms full of reusable grocery bags. These she deposited on the table beside her grandfather's still steaming cup of coffee and crossword puzzle. From the look of it, he wasn't getting very far.

Assuming that he had just popped off to use the bathroom, she unloaded the bags and put everything away. Perhaps more than any part of the adjustment of having moved in with him, getting him to relent to both her cooking and her way of reorganizing the kitchen had been trying. Fortunately, he didn't like to cook, so she ended up getting her way by default. He would constantly complain about the food she prepared - “Damn healthy crap” - but she knew it was mostly in good humor and appreciated. She thought he was secretly starting to prefer it to the usual meat, potatoes, and gravy.

When the food was all in its proper place and she still hadn't heard a peep from the old man, Vega got a bit concerned. He was in decent health, but there was always just that little bit of concern whenever she came home to the residence of a man nearing eighty. She listened to the background noise of the house, but couldn't hear him.

“Gramps?” she called again, this time from the living room and a bit louder. Still nothing.

She bounded up the steps in her new Nikes, taking them two at a time like usual, and was about to call again when she noticed the door to the attic open at the end of the hall. For two decades as a kid, she had visited her grandparents in this house and never seen the door open before. And now, after nearly three years as his roommate while finishing up her doctorate, she still had no idea what was up there. Any time she dared to tease grandpa about what his big secret was, he would make up another entirely absurd story. It had almost become a game, until she was old enough to sense there was something in his evasiveness that was terribly personal, at which point she let it drop.

Vega walked to the end of the hall and peered up the narrow stairs. All she could see was a blandly painted wall and ceiling up above. Would he be pissed if she went up there? Surely, he must not have expected her home at this hour.

“Gramps? You up there?” She waited for a response, but there was none forthcoming. She began to get nervous again.

“Gramps?” She knocked on the attic door, but still there was no response.

Reluctantly, she placed one foot on the stairs and waited for him to poke his head over the railing and tell her to buzz off. She took a second and a third step. She forced herself to breathe, realizing that she'd been holding it.

Three more steps up and her head crested the attic's floor level. The room was drab, furnished with only a desk, chair, and filing cabinet. Most of the walls were covered with news and magazine clippings, many probably decades old judging by their wear. For all the years of mystery, it seemed to be a bit of a letdown.

Grandpa wasn't anywhere to be seen, though a door near the other end of the room was open. She realized that it had to lead into an adjacent house, which seemed peculiar since he didn't get along well with either of his current neighbors. He wouldn't be snooping around his neighbors, would he? She wondered if she shouldn't just turn around now and pretend not to have seen anything.