I don’t answer. I can’t. I go get Bren instead.
After a fair amount of arguing, Bren drops us at an abandoned field on the other side of the neighborhood. Yeah, it’s a bit of a hike to get to the house, but we’re way less conspicuous, and if any Looking Glass security is still hanging around, we should be able to slip in undetected. Bren says she understands, but I know it still kills her to drive away. Her eyes linger in the rearview mirror.
When her car turns the corner, I look at Griff. The early evening light slants through his hair. “Let’s go.”
We keep our heads down and stick to people’s overgrown yards, weaving behind the trailers and houses until we reach my place. Then we stand in the woods, waiting, watching. It’s all kinds of uncomfortable. The temps are still high and the humidity makes me feel like I’m breathing through a wet towel. My hand is slick as I text Bren, telling her we’re here and we’re fine.
The immediate response?
Hurry it up
Not likely. We’re deliberately early for the meeting. Griff and I wanted to be ahead of Carson, to let him come to us.
“I don’t think Bren understands this is going to take a minute,” I say.
Griff looks at the text and shrugs. “When all this is finished, I bet she gets you one of those toddler leashes.”
“Hilarious.”
“It’s funny because it’s true.”
And it is, but I concentrate on the house so he can’t see my smirk. As far as I can tell, the place is abandoned as ever. The windows are dark and I don’t see anyone circling the perimeter. The roofline is patchy, but seems to be clear of cameras.
He wouldn’t have had the time to install pinhole cams, right? I guess if he had scoped the place before—
“Now or never, Wicked.” Griff takes a step toward the darkening yard. His hand brushes mine and my stomach flips.
Griff grins when I hesitate. “What? You wanted to live forever?”
I roll my eyes, but I follow him. The low sun turns our shadows long and lean as we head for the back door. I work the lock while Griff gives me directions—lift and turn, a little to the right, lift again . . . click.
And then we’re in.
There’s a heaviness to the air in the kitchen. I feel it as soon as we walk through the door. It’s like a breath being held or a scream being swallowed. It’s stuffy, dusty, familiar.
Everyone’s house has a scent. Bren’s house smells like fresh paint and orange cleanser. The house I grew up in?
It smells like decay and clings to me like flypaper.
Or maybe that’s just the memories. They return with the smell and erupt under my skin. Michael shoved my mom into that wall. He threw her down those stairs. Gave her a concussion. Two days later, he did the same to me, and Lily cried. Right there.
And over there.
And there.
“You okay?” Griff’s words slide against my ear in a whisper and I shiver. “Wick?”
“Yeah.” I shake myself, force my right foot forward, and then my left. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
We circle the downstairs together. Pretty easy since the place is so small. No one’s hiding in the kitchen, living room, or dining room. It’s empty and yet someone’s been here.
“Are all the electrical switch plates down?” I ask as Griff nears me. There are gouge marks in the drywall. Whoever opened them was in a hurry and didn’t care about being subtle.
“As far as I can tell, they are,” he says. “Weird, isn’t it? Why would you take off the plates and not take them with you?”
“Why would you take the plates down in the first place?”
Griff shrugs, looks toward the hallway. “The kitchen cabinets were all open and there are scrapes on the shelving backs like someone took a screwdriver to them.”
It’s warm in the house, but my skin is going colder and colder. “Same deal with the bathroom cabinets.”
“Kids having a party?”
“Nah, there’d be beer bottles or cigarette butts . . . I think someone was looking for something.”
“Like what?”
I shrug to hide my shiver. “Beats me. Ready to do the upstairs?”
We take the stairs as quietly as possible, dividing our attention between the windows, where we might be seen, and the bedrooms, where we might find someone. It’s the same deal as downstairs. The bathroom cabinets are wide open, the vents are down, even the closet doors are unhinged and left on the floor.
There is a loose board in the closet my mom used. The fake wood paneling pushes aside to reveal a thin coating of insulation and there might—might—have been an indentation, like something had been stored there. But, whatever it was, it’s long gone now.
Another one of my mom’s secrets?
I’ll never know. There were so many things we didn’t say to each other and this one feels like it’s just one more. I replace the panel and stand, forcing myself to move on.