Chapter Thirty-Nine

Slowly, I climb out of my car. But I don’t take any steps forward. I just stand still at the end of the walkway. I’m sure—very sure—that I closed the door properly when I left. Why is it open now?

My gaze flicks up and down the street. There’s no sign that anyone else has spied anything amiss. Vehicles sit in driveways. I can even see a man sitting in a lounge chair in his backyard, puffing away on an orange-tipped cigar.

Maybe Gabe came home and didn’t close the door, I reason.

I swing my eyes back toward his house and stare up for a few moments, then begin a cautious approach. When I reach the front landing, I step up the stairs and lean in close. I wait in silence, counting backward from twenty while I listen intently. There’s no sound or movement from inside Gabe’s house. No hint at all that anyone is inside.

Before I move my hand to the door, I again count backward, this time from fifteen instead of twenty. I hear nothing. Sense nothing.

I pause to run through my options. I can hope that if someone with bad intentions is inside, they haven’t yet spotted my car, and I can aim to utilize surprise. I can definitely come in aggressively. I do have the bear spray in my pocket. But I don’t want to rely on a blind wish. After another few seconds of deliberation, I opt to pretend that I don’t suspect anything is wrong. I’ll just create my own surprise.

I ready the bear spray and push the door open a little more, calling out as I do.

“Gabe?” I say, keeping my tone worry-free. “Are you in there?”

I’m not really expecting a response, and I don’t get one. After another heartbeat of quiet, I move on. Doing my best to appear unhurried, I hide my weapon in my palm, leave the door, and position myself in plain sight at the bottom of the front stairs. Then I repeat myself, a little louder this time. As though I’m expecting to find him outside.

“Gabe? Can you hear me? Are you in there?”

There’s still no answer. But now, for the benefit of anyone who happens to be watching, I’ve established that I’m not trying to hide my presence.

I make one more feigned attempt. “Gabe? Hello? Your door is open. Where are you?”

I stare at the house, my mind working to find both answers. An idea occurs to me right away. If Gabe isn’t here—either because he’s not back yet or because he’s come and gone again—his truck won’t be in the garage. All I have to do is take a look.

Even more cautious now, I move toward the rolled garage door. There, I push to my tiptoes to peer through the frosted window. The visibility isn’t the best, but I can still see that the space is empty, devoid of the truck that should be there.

My heart drops. I sink down, flattening my feet. What now? I only debate for a second before deciding that I need to do a perimeter search. If someone sees me and reports it, then so be it. I have a perfectly valid reason for being on the property. The owner invited me.

“Gabe?” I call as I step back from the garage. “I thought we were going to have lunch or something.”

I head to the side of the house—carefully and alertly, but not hesitantly—and open the gate that leads to the backyard. I keep close to the exterior wall as I move over the gravel and try to minimize the crunch of my shoes on the rocks. At the end of the building, I pause. I’m tempted to call out again, but if someone other than Gabe is there, then they’ve already heard me, and they’re purposely not answering.

Tensed to defend myself if need be, I press my lips together and take a small, silent step around the house. And I’m met with nothing. The tidy lawn is empty.

I sweep my gaze over the whole space—fence to fence—and still come up with zero signs of suspicious activity. There isn’t even anywhere for someone to hide. I exhale the breath I’ve been unconsciously holding, and I roll my shoulders. But just when I’m about to turn around and backtrack to the front again, a faint creak carries through the still air, stopping me. I jerk my eyes toward it. And even though I immediately spy the source of the noise, it doesn’t give me any kind of relief. Because the sound is emanating from the back door, which—like the front door—is open. It’s swaying back and forth a little in the breeze, and the sound is one that induces a shiver.

“Shit,” I mutter.

My fingers flex on the bear spray. Wishing it were a gun, I ready it. There’s no way I can’t go in. And there’s also no way I’m doing that without being readily armed.

Slowly, I close the gap between myself and the door. Even more slowly, I put my hand on the door. I ease it back, working to make the motion look as natural as the movement fueled by the wind. When I’ve created a space big enough for my body to fit through, I inch forward. I’m ready to be accosted. And I’m ready to unleash the bear spray if needed, too. But there’s no reaction from the interior of the house. I get all the way inside, and I don’t hear a thing except the sound of my own breathing. And it feels empty, too.

Where the hell is Gabe?

Quietly, I close the door. It’s immediately much darker, and I have to order my pulse to remain reasonable in its speed. I turn to face the room and take stock of what I can see. I’m in the kitchen. Which I would’ve known anyway if I’d stopped to think about it. But I’m glad to be slightly more oriented. The blinds are drawn, and the lights are off, which explains the extra bit of darkness. But I can see the outline of the fridge as well as the small white table in the corner where Gabe and I ate dinner the other night. It makes me confident enough to navigate across the tile floor to the doorway that leads out into the hallway. I pause there and listen. When I still hear nothing, I carry on.

The more rooms I go through, the more certain I am that there’s no one in the house except me. The main floor is completely clear. Pretty quickly, I become sure that the upstairs is the same. There’s no sign of anyone in either of the guest rooms. The small office is devoid of sound or motion. The main bathroom is empty. Every light in the house is off, and even though the sun is still up, it gives the whole place an eerie dimness.

Finally, I reach Gabe’s master suite, and outside of it, I hesitate. I’ve made it my last stop on purpose, remembering how wrong it had felt this morning to be going through it.

This is different, I tell myself firmly.

But I still don’t move yet. The door is open, and I can see the bed. The covers are rumpled, the pillow askew. It makes my face warm, but I manage to force a step forward anyway. And two heartbeats after I do, my discomfort is forgotten. Because for the first time since entering the house, I spy a hint of artificial light. And its source is an odd one. The closet. The bifold door is fully open, but from what I can see, the yellow hue isn’t provided by any visible bulb or fixture. Instead, the origin of the glow seems to be located somewhere behind the clothes hanging from their rack.

Puzzled and apprehensive, I walk across the carpet toward the closet. I’m only more confused when I get to it. The light is most definitely coming from the rear area of the space.

I toss a glance over my shoulder, then push the clothes aside. And I actually feel my eyes go comically wide. There’s another door there. And though it’s open a crack, I can tell that if it were closed, it would blend in perfectly with the wall.

So not just another door…I think. A secret door.

For what purpose?

I adjust my stance so that I have the bear spray ready, and inch closer. I listen. I count down, then up. I listen a little more. There’s absolutely no sound from within the hidden space. Zero hint that anyone is there, waiting. I let out a silent breath and make my move. I lift a foot, kick as hard as I can, then duck backward into Gabe’s clothes as the door swings open and bangs into the wall. There’s no reaction from within.

I ease forward. And I find something that startles me more than everything else has over the last couple of days. It’s a room. A small one. The ceiling is no more than six feet high, and its depth and width are no more than four feet in and across. All odd details. But none of that is what pins my feet to the spot. What stills me—what sucks the oxygen out of my lungs—is the fact that there’s a chair facing a wall, and that the wall in question is decorated with six women’s photographs. And three faces are all too familiar.

Monica Burns.

Savannah Stuart.

Jennika Flagstaff.

“Jesus,” I swear softly, stepping toward the display, eyeing the three unknowns with dread surging through my gut.

Who are they?

The setup reminds me of Asher’s crazy poster boards. Except this is…different. More sinister. And not just because of the chair that’s positioned for ideal viewing, either. I can see that the edges of the pictures are dog-eared. There are multiple holes in each one. And a fingerprint smears the face of one of the women I don’t know. Someone has spent a lot of time touching these photos.

Someone? says my subconscious in an accusatory tone.

And I answer in a whisper. “Gabe.”