And Daniel knew. Daniel knew it was here. He knew it was empty—ready and waiting for him.
My hands clench the steering wheel, my heart pounding in my chest. I sit in silence for a few seconds, wondering what to do. I think about calling Detective Thomas, asking him to meet me here. But what would he do, exactly? What proof do I have? Then I think about my father, making his way through these very woods at night, a shovel slouched over one shoulder. I think about myself, twelve years old, watching through my open window.
Watching, waiting, but not doing anything.
Riley could be in there. She could be in trouble. I grab my purse, a shaky hand opening the lip to reveal the gun nestled inside—the gun I had grabbed from the closet before leaving on my trip, the gun I had been looking for that night of the alarm. Then I take a breath before easing myself out of the car, closing the door with a silent click.
The air is warm and damp like a boiled-egg burp, the sulfur from the swamp oppressive in the summer heat. I tiptoe toward the driveway and stand there for a while, peering down that road toward home. The woods on either side are pitch-black, but I force myself to take a step forward. And then another. Another. Soon, I’m approaching the house. I had forgotten how absolute the darkness is out here, with no lights from the street or neighboring houses—but with that perfect, inky contrast, the moonlight always shines so bright. I look up at the full moon above me, totally unobscured. It beams on the house like a spotlight, making it glow. I can see it now, perfectly—the chipped white paint, the wood siding peeling under years of heat and humidity, the grass growing wild beneath my feet. Vines crawl up the side of the house like veins, giving it an otherworldly appearance, pulsing with devilish life. I start to creep up the stairs, avoiding the spots that are prone to creaking, but I notice that the blinds are open—and with the moon this bright, if Daniel is inside, I know I could be seen. So instead, I turn and walk around back. I eye the junk cluttering the backyard the way it always has—there are piles of old plywood stacked against the back of the house along with a shovel and a wheelbarrow with other gardening tools loaded inside. I imagine my mother on her hands and knees, soil pushed into her skin, a streak of dirt swiped across her forehead. I try to peer through the windows, but back here, the blinds are all closed, the lack of light on this side of the house making it impossible to see anything through the gaps. I try twisting the doorknob, jiggling it slightly, but it doesn’t open. It’s locked.
I exhale, resting my hands on my hips.
Then I have an idea.
I look at the door, summoning that day with Lena to the forefront of my mind—library card in hand, breaking into my brother’s bedroom.
First, check the hinges. If you can’t see them, it’s the right kind of lock.
I dig into my pocket and pull out Aaron’s badge, still wedged in my jeans after I had found it buried beneath the motel room sheets. I bend it in my hands—it’s sturdy enough—and insert it into the gap at an angle, just like Lena taught me.
Once the corner is in, straighten it up.
I start to wiggle the card, applying gentle pressure, moving it back and forth, back and forth. I push it in deeper, my free hand twisting the knob—until finally, I hear a click.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The back door pushes open, and I yank hard to free the card, wrapping it in my hand as I step inside. I feel my way through the hallway, trailing my fingers along the familiar walls to keep myself straight. The darkness is disorienting; I hear creaking in every direction, but I don’t know if it’s simply the noises of an old house or if it’s Daniel, creeping up behind me, arms extended, ready to strike.
I feel the hallway open up to our living room, and as I step inside, the room illuminates with the glow of the moon through the blinds, making it bright enough to see. I glance at my surroundings. The shadows of the room look exactly the way I remember them: my father’s old La-Z-Boy recliner in the corner, the leather faded and cracking. The TV on the floor with smudges on the screen from where my fingers pressed into the glass. This is where Daniel has been going: this house. This awful, terrible house is where he vanishes each week. It’s where he takes his victims, doing God-knows-what with them before returning to the spot where they disappeared and dumping their bodies. I look to my right, and that’s when I notice an unusual shape on the floor, long and lean like a stack of wooden boards.
A shape like a body. The body of a young girl.
“Riley?” I whisper, running across the living room and toward the shadow. Before I reach it, I can see that it’s her: eyes closed, mouth shut, hair loose around her cheeks and cascading across her chest. Even in the dark, or perhaps because of the dark, the paleness of her face is startling—she looks like a ghost, lips blue, all the blood drained from her skin, giving her a translucent glow.