We break in the back door. That sounds far more badass than it is. While Chris and I hunt for a window to go through, Jesse demonstrates the advantage of being the levelheaded one. We’re getting ready to smash through glass… and he’s looking for a spare key. He finds one under a rock. It opens the back door.
The door leads into a mudroom. One pair of work boots sits on the mat. Above them hang the overalls Owen wears at school.
“So he came home today.” I check the overall pockets and find a key ring. Jesse compares the keys to the spare and says, “No match. They don’t look like car keys, either.”
This set must be Owen’s school keys. He keeps his car and house keys on another ring. I’m also guessing he has another pair of shoes for going out. Those aren’t here either. More evidence that we won’t find Owen inside.
Two doors lead off the mudroom. The first one opens into the living room. The other goes to a dark basement. When I take a step down, Jesse catches my arm and whispers, “There’s a lock.”
He points at a keyhole.
“Right,” I say. “And it’s open.”
“Exactly.”
He’s leaning in to explain when I whisper, “Oh,” and he nods. If Owen was keeping Tiffany behind a locking basement door, he’d have secured it before he left.
“But —” I begin.
“She could still be down there,” he whispers. “I know. She’s not going anywhere, though. That sounds cruel…”
He trails off, and I understand. We’re reasonably certain Owen isn’t here. That doesn’t mean, however, that we should head straight into the basement when it’ll only take a few minutes to confirm that the house really is empty.
We creep into the living room. As we approach the broken glass, I can see that the stain is still wet, but the liquid has soaked into the carpet. Spilled a while ago. I bend to inhale the caramel sweetness of cola.
Jesse’s examining the broken glass. His gaze catches on one piece. Then he looks to the floor, his gaze skimming over the linoleum before rising to the wall. I move into the dining room and see what he sees.
There’s blood on that one big piece of glass. None on the linoleum that I can see, but when I follow Jesse’s gaze, I spot blood spatter on the wall. Not much, though.
“Dropped the glass, picked up a piece, cut his finger and shook it?” I say. “Spattering blood on the wall?”
“Maybe.”
A board creaks overhead. Jesse grips my arm, as if I’m about to race for the stairs. I give him a look, and he eases off with a mouthed apology. We both strain to listen, but no other sounds come. Jesse takes a careful step toward the front of the house. One more step and —
A scrabbling noise sounds over our heads, and we both jump. As I turn, I can still hear it, seemingly coming from the wall beside us. The exterior wall.
I’m creeping toward the window when a high-pitched squeak has me falling back. A dark shape swoops past the window, and I startle-jump again. We both do. Then another shape follows and Jesse says, “Bats.”
I move to the window. A third bat swoops down from the eaves and takes off into the night. The scrabbling in the walls has stopped.
I grumble under my breath, and we stand there, looking around, as if forgetting what we’ve been doing.
Jesse whispers, “All clear down here.”
It does seem to be – if anyone was around, we’d have given ourselves away, jumping at the bats.
Jesse checks his watch. A hint that Owen won’t be gone forever. I glance at the back door, thinking of the basement, but Jesse motions overhead. I nod.
We slip to the front hall. Through the kitchen doorway, I see dishes piled in the sink. Quite a few dishes, considering Owen seems a tidy homeowner. A sign that he’s feeding a captive, too?
The smell of fried chicken hangs in the air, but I don’t see takeout containers. There’s a cast-iron pan in the sink.
Jesse taps my arm. Nothing to see here. Time to get upstairs.
We’re almost to the second floor when a noise sounds from the attic. We both stop and look up.
No other sounds come.
I mouth, “Bats?”
Jesse shrugs. We continue on, slower now. Above us, on the second floor, we see four doors. Two are closed. We can see through the other two – a bedroom in one and a bath in the other.
Jesse’s looking between the two closed doors. That’s when something moves over his head, and I’m grabbing his shoulder to yank him back, and then I realize it’s a dangling cord.
The cord hangs from a trapdoor in the ceiling. And it’s swaying.
“Attic?” I mouth.
He nods.
I pantomime a bat and point at the cord, asking if he thought a bat might have set it swinging. He studies that cord for another moment. Then he motions for us to approach the trapdoor.
If it’s not a bat, then something in the attic set the cord swaying, something moving about. Something that could be a girl bound and gagged, held prisoner right over our heads.
I’m right behind him. He’s passing the railing at the top of the stairs. A thump sounds behind me, and I turn and —
A stifled cry of rage. A blur of motion. I’m spinning toward it, and I see an open door. An open door where there’d been a closed one.
A figure barrels straight for Jesse. I lunge. His hands rise to ward off the figure. It plows into him, battering like a ram, head lowered.
Jesse flies backward. He hits the railing. There’s a crack. The old wood gives way, and he’s falling, and I’m lunging to catch him, but it’s too late. He’s falling backward through the broken railing, arms windmilling.
A stifled scream. Not from Jesse. From the figure standing in the hall. It’s Tiffany, her mouth gagged, hands bound, her eyes wide with horror as Jesse falls.
I’m already racing down the stairs, and then vaulting around the last few and stumbling to Jesse. He’s flat on his back, heaving deep breaths.
I drop beside him. “Don’t try to get up. Just stay there.”
He motions to his chest.
“I know,” I say. “I’m getting help.”
I have my phone out, and I hear the back door slap open and the sound of running footfalls.
“Jesse? Skye?” Chris calls.
“In here!” I shout.
Jesse’s trying to rise, and I put my hands out to stop him.
“Don’t move,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Just… wind. Wind knocked out.” He gulps breaths. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
He keeps rising, brushing me off and wincing as he pushes to his feet. A thump sounds behind us, and I look to see Tiffany tumbling down the last few steps.
“Help her,” Jesse says. “Chris, call the police. I… I just need… catch my breath.”
Chris is already making the call, and I’m running to Tiffany. She’s on one knee, tears rolling down her cheeks. I get the duct tape off her mouth, wincing as I do.
“I thought you were him,” she says as I untie her hands. “Owen. It’s Owen.” She looks at me. “Owen Pryor. He’s the one —” She can’t finish, choking on a sob. “I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Gone. He – He left me here. Left me to —” She can’t get out the rest, chest heaving. I finish untying her hands.
Chris says, “The police are on their way. Five minutes. They said if there’s no sign of Owen, we should stay put. I’ll watch the front.”
I lead Tiffany to a chair in the dining room. Her gaze keeps flitting to the front door, and her mouth opens, and I know she wants to go, just go. But the police are right. If there’s no sign of Owen, we shouldn’t run.
I’m not sure Tiffany and Jesse could even run. Jesse’s on his feet, helping me with Tiffany, and he’s breathing hard through clenched teeth, clearly in pain.
Tiffany glances at the door again.
“We’re fine here,” I say. “We didn’t see any sign of him, and his car’s gone.”
“I know. I just…” She straightens. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It was just…”
She looks up at me. “He left me here. He came home from work, and I could hear him making dinner, and then he took a call. From Vicki, I think. He started swearing and he said they were done, that he couldn’t finish it. When he got off the phone, he threw something. A plate or…” She sees the broken glass on the floor. “That. It must have been that. I heard it smash, and then he came upstairs, and he never said a word to me. Never opened my door. I heard him in his room, drawers opening and shutting, like he was packing a bag. Then he left. Left me bound and gagged and locked in.” She meets my gaze again. “How could someone do that?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
I really don’t.