Monday, 6 p.m.

  I park down from Donna Keller’s driveway, and turning off the engine, I quietly sit and watch their trailer. Mature unkempt trees line their short driveway and the road coming to and from. Tall grass and weeds fill their front, side, and backyard. A wall of pine trees borders the rear. I don’t know what’s beyond that.

  Again, I’m struck by how isolated the place is.

  That old Mustang still sits in the side yard. Inside the home, yellow light glimmers just like when I was here before. A mile or so behind me sits the landfill, glowing softly even from this distance. Up on a hill to the left and tucked into thick trees sits a weathered home, dark and deserted.

  There are no lights this far out in the country. I struggle to see. The whole area depresses me.

  I crack my window, smelling damp winter air—a sign of more sleet to come.

  I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I guess I just wanted to see. And hopefully, regain focus.

  Enough time goes by that the moon rises, hanging heavy and nearly full, but mostly blocked by winter storm clouds.

  Reaching for the ignition, I’m about to move on when the front door opens to the Keller home, allowing yellow light to spill out. Carl emerges holding a lantern and with the old dog fastened to a leash. After closing the front door, he takes the few steps down to the overgrown yard and stands, letting the dog do its thing.

  He looks up to the moon, then to the right, followed by the left.

  The old dog walks forward. With the lantern casting a soft white glow, Carl follows the length of the short driveway. They make it to the edge where the gravel meets the road I’m parked on. Carl stops, but the dog keeps walking down the road in the opposite direction from where I’m parked.

  Carl looks over his shoulder, back toward the trailer, like he’s checking to see if anyone is watching. Then he goes back to the old dog getting further and further away. He allows it to go the length of the leash, fifteen feet or so, before yanking it, hard, back toward him.

  Yelping, the dog’s old body catches air. It lands hard on its backside. Carl giggles.

  Mother f—

  Sickened, I reach for the handle right as the dog gets free and with its leash trailing, it runs full force down the gravel driveway toward their home, all while Carl watches.

  It barks, the front door opens, and Donna lets it in. If she’s worried about her grandson still being out, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she closes the door. Carl stays where he’s at.

  My fingers dig into the steering wheel. I take a breath as I go back to watching him.

  Minutes tick by. He begins to sway in place, swinging the lantern back and forth. His lips move. He’s singing.

  I roll my window down, straining to hear, but I can’t make out the words. He turns a circle, twirling the lantern. Then he skips down the road, right toward me. He doesn’t notice me sitting in the truck, tucked into the shadows of a giant oak tree. His soft singing grows louder as he approaches…

  “Great green gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts. Swimming in—”

  I’m reaching for my hunting knife and swinging out of Grandpa’s truck before Carl gets the next note out.

  On the dark road, I face him. “Carl.”

  Startled, he stops. The lantern reflects in his thick glasses. He blinks.

  I hold up my knife. “Remember me?”

  Headlights flash through the night as Grace pulls into her father’s abandoned studio. I stand at the back door, trying not to show my nerves.

  She turns off the lights of her mom’s car. Darkness engulfs the area. She’s already talking when she opens the driver’s side. “What is going on?”

  “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, right?”

  “I did what you said. I came straight here.” She steps closer, but not enough that I can see her face.

  “You didn’t tell Matthew either?”

  “No.” She looks to the right where I backed the truck up and left it parked just feet from where we stand. The tail-gate is still down and one of Grandpa’s tool boxes sits open. Beside it lays the wadded-up tarp I used to cover Carl’s body.

  Grace looks back at me. My eyes have now adjusted to the darkness. I see confusion and worry etched into her face. She swallows. “Nell… what is going on?”

  Stepping to the side, I nod to the back door of her dad’s abandoned studio. NO TRESPASSING has been painted in bright orange. “I broke in.”

  “And why did you break in?”

  “I should probably just show you,” I say, not moving.

  She waits.

  Still, I don’t move.

  “You are freaking me out. Go.” She waves me in.

  Reluctantly, I push open the back door. “I’ll buy you a new lock.”

  “I don’t care about a new lock,” she mumbles, following me into a narrow passageway.

  I’d left my flashlight just inside the door and I pick it up now, turning it on. The beam bounces off the dust coating the floor and the rodent droppings scattered about.

  Behind me, she groans. “If we see a rat, I’m out of here.”

  The narrow passage leads into what used to be a lounge. Cobwebs span the corners and stains drip the walls from a leaky roof.

  The lounge moves into an office with wires hanging from the ceiling. Despite my racing pulse, I shiver, though I think it’s more from what I’m about to show Grace versus the cold clinging in the air.

  A thick black door separates the office from the soundproof studio.

  I stop at the door, turning to look at my friend.

  She glances around as if she’s afraid of the lurking shadows. “We should burn this place down. I don’t know why Mom keeps it. No one will ever buy it.” Her eyes move past me to the closed door.

  Without another word, I open it and step inside, beckoning Grace to follow. I have a very clear and distinct memory of coming here with her when we were tiny girls. Her father had us record “Happy Birthday” for her mom. We giggled and danced and sang.

  Now my memory will be of this.

  Other than Carl’s battery-powered lantern I placed in the corner, the twenty-by-twenty-foot room spans empty and dusty like the rest of the place. Carl Keller lies in the corner, his arms and legs duct taped to his body like a skinny runt of a mummy. With red puffy eyes and blood caking the side of his head, he looks like death. I shoved a rag in his mouth, but it now lays to the side.

  Pale-faced with shock, Grace looks at me. “Wh-what did you do?”

  “I hit him in the jaw with the butt of my hunting knife. It knocked him out. It shocked me. I didn’t know what to do. And before I realized it, I was hauling him up into the truck. Then I covered his body with a tarp and brought him here. I hit him again, in the side of the head, to make sure he didn’t wake up. I dragged him in here and duct taped him. It all happened so fast. I didn’t mean to. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I was sitting at his house and he was walking the dog. He yanked on the dog. But that’s not what set me off. He was singing their song, Grace. ‘Great Green Gobs.’ He was singing their song. And he told me they only cried once. He knows where they are. He does.”

  Shaking her head, Grace backs away. “You have to call Sheriff Owens.”

  “No. Carl has him fooled. He plays the brain damage card and acts like he doesn’t know anything. Owens believes him. But Carl’s a liar. He knows where our brothers are. We have to make him talk.”

  Grace looks from me over to Carl. “What if you’re wrong? What if you thought you heard him singing that song?”

  “I heard him singing ‘Great Green Gobs.’ I’m not wrong.”

  “Listen, I want Luca back just as bad as you want Tyler. You know I do. But this isn’t right.”

  “Our brothers will die if we don’t make him talk. They will die. Do you not get that? They’re only six years old.” I shift closer, lowering my voice. “Imagine what he’s already done to them.”

  Something in Grace’s expression shifts. Perhaps she’s doing exactly what I just said. She’s imagining, and with that, confliction gives way to rage.

  She stomps past me, coming down onto her knees and grabbing hold of his shaggy brown hair. “How do you know that song?”

  Carl shakes his head.

  “How?” she repeats.

  “I don’t,” he whispers.

  Grace moves closer. “Yes, you do, and if you don’t tell us, you will suffer.”

  We now sit side by side on the floor, our backs against the soundproof wall.

  Wincing, I flex my hands open. They quiver when my fingers stretch wide. They’ve been clenched for the hour we’ve been here.

  Still lying in the corner, Carl stares at us. He hasn’t said a word since the I don’t from earlier.

  With a heavy breath, Grace rubs her temples. “How brain-damaged is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I sigh.

  Another moment goes by, and we sit here not speaking. I know what I heard. He sang their song. He taunted me by telling me they only cried once. He knows where they are. I know that he knows. Why isn’t he talking?

  Leaning over, Grace whispers in my ear, “He needs more motivation to talk. Our threats of pain aren’t working.”

  Because he needs actual pain, I want to say but I don’t. I’d like to think I’m capable of torturing him for Tyler and Luca, but I’m not sure.

  So, I’m following Grace’s lead.

  For now.

  “Do you love your grandmother?” I ask him, an idea forming.

  He frowns. “Yes.”

  “He speaks,” Grace murmurs.

  “What would you say if we brought her here, too? Hm? How about we duct tape her and take turns punching her until you talk? Would you like that?” The thought of punching an old lady nauseates me.

  “No.”

  “We will do that.” My tone lowers. “If you don’t tell us where Tyler and Luca are, she’ll be the one who suffers. Do you hear me? Do you want that? She raised you. She took care of you. You want her to suffer?”

  Carl screams, loud and shrilling like he’s a feral cat being tortured.

  Grace flinches.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Be as loud as you want. No one will hear.” I stand. “Let’s go.”

  We close the door, leaving him thrashing and screaming in the corner of the soundproof room. I stay still to listen. Sure enough, not a sound can be heard.

  “You’re not really going to drag his grandmother in here. Are you?” Grace cautiously asks.

  “No,” I answer, wondering how far I really will go with this.

  SEVEN

  Tuesday, 6 a.m.

  I thought of that question the whole way home. How far would I go to find Tyler? I would go all the way, without a doubt. I just wasn’t sure what that meant exactly.

  It was one in the morning when I pulled Grandpa’s truck up into the driveway. Through the trees that separated our neighborhoods, I saw Grace park in front of her house.

  I turned my engine off and was about to get out when Mom’s shadow moved across a window. I didn’t want to go in. I couldn’t face her.

  Instead, I tucked my hands into the pockets of my coat, and I closed my eyes…

  A polite knocking on the driver’s side window jolts me.

  A woman stands outside the truck, smiling, motioning me to roll the window down. It's light out. Frost covers the windshield, and cold seeps into my bones.

  I fell asleep.

  Clearing my throat, I roll the window down. “Yes?”

  “Hi. Do you live around here?”

  “I do.” I nod to Grandpa’s home. “Right there.”

  If she thinks it’s odd that I’m sleeping in the truck, she doesn’t let on. “Oh, good. There’s a house for sale in the adjacent neighborhood. I’m considering buying it. Do you like this area?”

  No, I don’t. “I just moved here. I’m not the person to ask.”

  “Okay. I’m going to keep walking around. Maybe I’ll see someone else out this early. Bye, stay warm.” She waves.

  “Bye,” I mutter, thinking of that house.

  It’s the same one where Carl’s station wagon was parked.

  I could do a property search, but instead I text Grace.

  Me: Who owns that house for sale across from you?

  She doesn’t immediately text back. She’s probably asleep. I use the time to run inside and grab a hot shower, followed by food. Before I leave, I check on Mom.

  I find her curled on her side, her back to the bedroom door.

  “Mom?”

  She doesn’t stir.

  I walk around the bed to find her eyes open. She doesn’t look at me. “Do you need anything?” I quietly ask.

  “No.” She closes her eyes.

  “I’m going to find him, Mom. I promise.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  My phone buzzes with a text. Quietly, I leave Mom’s room.

  In the hall, I read Grace’s reply.

  Grace: That place has always been a rental property. It’s only recently been put on the market.

  Me: But who owns it?

  Grace: Not sure. Why?

  Me: Of all the homes, why was Carl Keller parked in front of that one?

  Grace: Good question…

  Me: I’m heading out. I’ll replace the lock I broke and check on…other things.

  Grace: I can’t come with you. Matthew is on his way over.

  Me: I’ll keep you in the loop.

  It doesn’t take me any time at all to buy a new lock and replace the one I broke on the studio’s back door. As I walk through the interior of the run-down building, intermittent daylight filters in through boarded-up windows. It’s enough I don’t need my flashlight.

  I enter what used to be the office. A family of mice scatters.

  I open the soundproof door. The smell of piss, sweat, and fear greets me.

  Carl rolled across the room during the night and now lies in the other corner, still duct taped tight.

  Other than his eyes that track my movements, he makes no sound or movement of his own.

  I come down next to him, taking in his swollen jaw and the matted blood that covers a bruise spreading to his hairline. I hit him good with that hunting knife. Twice.

  “You ready to tell me where Tyler and Luca are?”

  Silence.

  “You willing to die here instead of speaking?”

  Silence.

  “Because that’s what I’ll do. I’ll leave you here to rot and starve to death. I don’t care.”

  Silence.

  “Why were you at that house with the ‘For Sale’ sign?”

  Silence.

  “How brain-damaged are you?”

  Silence.

  I scream in his face.

  He flinches.

  “TELL. ME. WHERE. THEY. ARE.”

  Silence.

  Another scream from me and I punch him in the nose. It’s the first time I’ve ever used my fist on someone.

  He cries.

  Blood swells from both nostrils, bubbling with his breath.

  “TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!”

  Silence.

  I throw another punch, catching it before it connects. His flinch satisfies me. I leave him there, closing the door, securing the new pad lock on the exterior, then climbing in the truck.

  My phone rings. It’s Sheriff Owens.

  “Hello?”

  “This is a courtesy call only. As I said before, I’m going above and beyond on this out of respect for your grandfather.”

  I roll my eyes. “What do you want to tell me?”

  “I wanted to let you know we were unable to identify the body you found in the storm cellar, though we were able to tell it had been there five years like Father Richards said. We’ve brought charges against him. He believes he did real justice by killing that man and ridding the world of him. You’ll be expected to testify when the time comes.”

  “Is that it?”

  “How is Jill doing?”

  “Fine. Goodbye.” I click off, and I sit where I am as I launch a browser on my phone to look up that house that’s for sale.

  It belongs to Jason and Nancy McMillan.

  Another couple of searches and I locate their address, but not their phone number. They live just over the state line in Virginia. I plug it into maps, and I leave Carl in there to rot.

  An hour later I pull up outside a two-story brick, colonial-style home. I park in front of the garage and follow a stone path up to the front door.

  I ring the bell.

  It emits an elegant tune.

  Inside, shadows shift as a person moves through the house. A woman answers. I’d place her in her late fifties, early sixties. Other than the white slippers on her feet, she looks dressed for work in a pencil skirt and tucked-in blouse.

  Her defined eyebrows arc up with efficient-manners. “Yes?”

  “Are you Nancy McMillan?”

  “Yes, I am. May I help you?”

  “Do you own a rental property in White Quail?”

  She hesitates, looking me up and down. “Why don’t you tell me what you need? I’m trying to get to work.”

  “My name is Nell Brach. My brother and his friend were taken Saturday evening. The person I think took them was parked right outside your rental house. I’m trying to figure out if there is a connection.”

  She stiffens. Then with a vague nod, she invites me in. “Let me make a call to work and then we’ll chat.”

  I now sit on a floral-patterned couch with a mug of coffee cradled in my hands.

  Nancy is diagonal to me on a dark-framed chair upholstered in blush pink. “I swear that house is cursed. It’s been in my family forever. My father lived there. Died there, too. Jason and I lived there as newlyweds. It’s where I miscarried our first child during the third trimester. Eventually, we made the place into a rental property. The second person we rented to left something on the stove and caught the house on fire. The fourth person we rented to fell from the attic and broke her leg. There were months with no renters, but a burglar broke in, vandalized, and took what he could. Then came Randy, our son.”

 

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