As I walked down the second driveway toward Gavin’s, I could see the main house at the top of the hill. It was still hot out, the air smelling like dried grass and dust. I glanced around nervously, worried that Gavin was going to drive in or that someone could see me from the house or the road.
Finally I came around the bend in the driveway and saw the second house. It was smaller than the main one, simpler, more like a basic box. You could tell a man lived alone there, with no chairs or flowers or anything on the front porch, just a stack of empties. I could hear country music, like he’d left a radio on inside. It was kind of loud, which was strange, considering he wasn’t even home.
I noticed a large building slightly behind the house, probably a shop or garage. I headed toward it. The front had two overhead doors that I couldn’t slide up from the outside, and the side door was locked. I came around the back side and climbed a crate, then stood on a metal barrel and looked through a dirty window. It almost looked like there was a car under a tarp, but I couldn’t see the color or anything, couldn’t really even judge the size.
I got off the barrel, glanced toward the house. I wondered if it was locked. How long would it take him to fix a tractor? I’d have to be very careful—it might be hard to hear him coming up the driveway because of the radio. I walked toward the back, figuring it would be safer to find a back door in case I had to run for it.
I looked down the road again, listened. I couldn’t hear anything, just the country music, louder now that I was closer to the house. I crept onto the porch, praying like crazy that he didn’t have a dog. The door was locked, but I noticed a window beside it was open a little, the curtain moving in the breeze. I peeked in. It looked like a bathroom.
I slid the window all the way up. It was stiff and I had to really work it, my hands getting slivers from the old wood. I climbed in, feet first, and landed in Gavin’s bathroom. It was gross, the toilet stained, the tile on the floor dingy, like he never mopped the floor. His toothbrush was on the counter, the bristles flat and the handle caked with old toothpaste, which also coated the sink. A razor was lying on its side, little bits of hair scattered all over the counter.
I crept into the kitchen, opened what looked like a closet door under the stairs, right beside his kitchen table. It was a pantry, large enough that you could walk in and move around. The house had an open floor plan—a mark on the floor and ceiling showed where a wall had been—and I could see into the living room. It wasn’t very big, but he had a large TV. His couch was sagging, a blanket tossed on the side, and a fan hummed in a corner. The coffee table was old, had a full ashtray, none with lipstick, and a bunch of hunting magazines spread out.
I peeked out the little window at the front door, checking for Gavin’s truck. When I turned back around I noticed some steps going down, and another door. Did it go to a basement? I opened it, looked down the dark stairs.
I stood at the top, called out: “Crystal?”
No answer. I started making my way down the stairs, carefully holding on to the rail, each step creaking and my breath tight in my throat. I found a light on the wall, turned it on. The room was packed with boxes, old bikes, tools, garbage bags full of God knows what, camping equipment.
“Crystal?”
I couldn’t see how anyone else could be down there, but I tried to walk around a little, squeezing between stuff, almost knocking over a bunch of boxes. I didn’t see any other rooms. I made my way back upstairs.
The country music was even louder inside the house. Was he trying to cover something? It sounded like it was coming from an upper floor. I walked up the stairs, pushing open bedroom doors, calling Crystal’s name. It was hotter upstairs, my face was slick with sweat, and the air smelled like sewer and rotten food or something. One of the rooms was empty and the other had an older bed in it, with a blanket in a camouflaged pattern tossed over it, a hunting poster above the bed. It didn’t look like it was used often. There was still another room at the end of the hall. Maybe the master bedroom?
I walked down the hall, tried to turn the handle but it was locked. He was definitely hiding something.
“Crystal?” I couldn’t hear anything over the radio, which was coming from that room. How could I get in the door? I examined the handle. If I could find a hammer, I might be able to smash it off—he’d know someone had been in his house, but I had to get in that room.
I walked back down the hall—I’d look for a hammer downstairs—and was almost at the top of the stairs when I heard what sounded like a truck door slamming. I ran into the spare room, glanced out the window, which was at the front of the house, and could just see the back end of a pickup truck underneath the overhang. I hadn’t heard him over the radio.