Taylor was sure of that too. “Thanks. I won’t tell him. He’d blow a gasket if he knew we were here.”
“And just where is here at this moment?”
Taylor thought about telling the truth but didn’t want to admit they had broken into the house. “We’re cruising around Red Creek. Brent has never seen it, and I’m getting my bearings. What time are you off work?”
“I’m home by five thirty. Be careful, Taylor. This place may have been safer for the last twelve years, but it’s still Red Creek, and the thing your father is afraid of isn’t the only bad part of the town,” Beth said, and Taylor appreciated her concern.
“We’ll be safe. I’ll see you soon.” Taylor hung up before her aunt could hear Brent clanging his way into the house with a stepladder in his hands.
“Here we go.” Brent unfolded the ladder and climbed the rungs, pushing the attic space panel up and to the side. Insulation and dust rained onto him, and he averted his gaze, avoiding the onslaught. “Nasty.”
“See anything?” Taylor knew the house was empty of stuff, but her dad had mentioned that he wished he’d gone into the attic more than once. He said with his mom being so secretive, there was a chance she’d squirreled away something important up there.
Brent was using his phone as a flashlight, and he was in the attic space from his waist up. “I don’t see anything but dust and old insulation. Wait, I think there’s a box. Do you want me to get it?”
Taylor couldn’t believe how gung-ho Brent was being about all of this. He’d come to Red Creek to help her investigate a story, and he was all in. “If you can. Don’t hurt yourself.”
He was already climbing higher on the ladder, and he pulled himself up. She cringed as she saw his legs enter the attic, and for a moment, he disappeared. “Brent?”
His head popped into sight. “Oh, there it is.” He was gone again, and came back seconds later with a box flap showing from above. He clambered onto the ladder, which Taylor stepped on and held firmly in place. Once he was safely planted, he grabbed the box and lowered it to her.
She saw some papers inside, a photo album and a journal. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.” The house was beginning to get the best of her. It felt tainted; empty, yet occupied.
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Brent picked up the bat she’d leaned against the closet door, and they left the ladder behind, along with the attic open. Taylor didn’t think anyone would really care.
They exited through the back door, and Taylor pulled it closed. From the concrete step, she could see the fields out behind the property, trees lining the forest beyond the farmer’s land. She knew all about the path that her dad had taken on the day of his abduction, and Dad’s friend Jason Benning’s son had been taken there too.
“What was that all about? Do you think this has anything to do with the Smiths?” Brent asked as they walked over to the car.
Taylor stopped on the sidewalk before crossing the street. From here, the break in the houses was visible, the pathway looming at the end of the block.
“Taylor, let’s go. It’s starting to rain.” Brent had the car door open, the box from the attic already slid into the backseat.
She was about to join him when she looked over at the house to the right of the one they’d just broken into. A woman was watching her through living room blinds. “Brent, I’ll be right back.”
She didn’t wait around for his protests. Taylor jogged up to the neighbor’s house and knocked on the door. Brent arrived behind her, and she turned towards him, giving him an apologetic “I’m sorry for dragging you into this” look. He shrugged as the door opened, revealing a spindly old woman.
“What?” she asked from behind a closed screen door.
“I’m Taylor Alenn. My dad grew up next door. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.” Taylor used her sweetest voice, the one she only pulled out when she needed a big favor from her parents or friends. Brent grinned beside her.
The woman glared from one of them to the other and moved her stick-thin arm for the lock on the screen door. “Come on in. But take your shoes off.”
The house smelled like cat litter and English breakfast tea. Not the ideal mixture. “Have you lived here long?” Taylor asked, glancing around at the 1970s furniture and dozens of gilded picture frames lining the walls.
“You could say that. Now shut the door before someone sees us.”
Taylor didn’t understand the paranoia, but Brent closed the door quickly, and they stepped inside, taking their shoes off.
“How long has the house next door been for sale?” Taylor walked into the living room, sitting on the couch when the old lady pointed to it.
“Two years.”
“Any idea why?” Brent asked.
The old lady stared at him, standing rigid while the two younger guests sat on the old couch. “Why is it empty? That’s obvious. Because it’s haunted.”
Taylor’s arm hair stood on end, and she felt Brent tense up beside her.
Before they could comment, the lady spoke up again. “My name’s Edith, by the way. Anyone want some tea?”
Six
“Yes, we have one Abigail. Abigail Prescott. We’ll page her now, Detective,” the woman said with a cheerful hint to her voice.
Tom wasn’t sure what she had to be happy about. She was talking to a detective about a missing girl, with suspected foul play, and he suspected she was dreaming of getting home for another boring Friday night. By the looks of her, she had a couple of screaming rugrats to watch out for.
“Thank you.” He gave her his kindest smile and sat in the school office, waiting for Abigail to be summoned. The principal came over to him and directed him to the school counselor’s office. The man told Tom how the counselor was using the gymnasium as a base camp this week, with the entire school population being so worried about their own Brittany Tremblay. Tom nodded and accepted the office space with grace.
The counselor had eclectic tastes. Oversized motivational posters in plastic frames circled the space, but Tom did his best to avoid reading them. His head was aching now, and only after a day in Red Creek. He felt the pressure of the case building up. The damned sheriff still hadn’t called him, and Tom had a feeling the guy was off on his own goose chase, trying to find the girl by himself.
Under normal circumstances, Tom would be okay with that if the guy had the leads, but he wanted to be in the loop. Every one of these small towns was the same. The local force always got up in arms when a smarter, younger man came marching in wearing a suit. It was always the suit that did it. Tom had no doubt that if he’d arrived in a button-down shirt and jeans, they’d be more open to shoot the breeze with him.
He didn’t care. Tom wore suits with pride. It was the only job he’d ever pictured himself doing.
There was a knock on the door, and the secretary led a somber girl into the office. “Here she is, Detective.” The door shut, and Tom motioned for the girl to have a seat in the swivel chair at the front of the desk.
Tom moved some of the scattered papers on the desktop and shoved them into a drawer. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a disorganized work space.
“Abigail?” he asked, and she nodded.
“What is this about?” the girl asked, her voice confident and firm, not afraid like one might expect.
“Do you know Brittany Tremblay?” Tom leaned away, trying to seem less imposing.
“Sure, I know her. Have you found her yet?” The question came out with no emotion. It felt odd.
The girl across from him was fourteen, a little older than the missing Brittany, but they were in the same grade. This young lady could pull off sixteen, a far stretch from the lanky pictures of Brittany. They didn’t seem like they’d be friends, not at that age.
Tom shook his head in response and kept talking. “Tell me when you saw her last.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know her well.” Abigail looked to her hands, as
if she was assessing her nails. Tom noticed they were painted black, matching the dark liner circling her eyes. Her dark hair had a slice of deep purple falling over the left side of her face.
“That’s news to me, because her parents seem to think you were her best friend.” Tom watched for a reaction, and he got it.
“Look, I don’t know why they’d say that. I barely know her. Sure, she started trying to follow me around lately. She was getting to be a stalker. She’s not like me.”
“How do you mean?” Tom asked quietly.
“She’s… you know. Bland. The boys don’t like her. She reads books about fantasy worlds. I mean, come on. And her family is…”
“Poor?” Tom offered the word, and she caught it.
“Yes. They’re poor. I keep trying to get my parents to move closer toward Gilden. Then I could be at a normal school with normal kids. Here I’m surrounded by Red Creek kids, and they’re not in my league.” Abigail said it but appeared to realize what a snob she must sound like, because she tried to backpedal. “I just mean, we don’t have a lot in common. My parents own a car dealership in Gilden.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. He’d bought a car from them last year. The owner seemed like an asshole, but his choices had been limited. It was probably her father.
“Okay. So you’re saying you weren’t friends with Brittany, but you didn’t answer my question. When did you last see her?” Tom firmed up his voice and leaned forward. Playtime was over, and he needed answers.
Abigail’s eyes met his but quickly averted. Tom noticed tears forming. “What is it? Tell me what happened.”
“Fine. It was only a joke. She kept following me around, trying to eat with me, thinking we could get her dad to drive us to the movies in Gilden next Friday. I had to get rid of her.”
Get rid of her. Tom tensed.
“No. God, no.” Abigail was crying now. “I told her to meet me in the forest behind the farmer’s field where she lives.”
“When?”
“Wednesday night,” she said.
“You told her this Wednesday night?”
“We talked at school before I caught the bus. I live in between the towns on an acreage.”
“And you told her to meet you in the forest, is that correct?” Tom was starting to get somewhere.
“She thinks I’m into witchcraft, I think. Because I hang out with Clarice and Netta.”
“And who are they?” Tom asked.
“A couple of older girls. Eleventh grade. They dress like Wiccans, but they’re really just posers. I like them, though, and they get me invited to parties.” Abigail wiped her eyes with a sleeve, spreading the black make-up across her face.
“You told Brittany to meet you here at school. What time did you say you’d be here?” Tom was taking notes now.
“Nine.”
“And what were you going to do afterwards?”
“I don’t know. I said I’d bring some beer, and she could try it. She was too easy to get on board about anything,” Abigail said.
Tom felt bad for Brittany. He knew the type only too well. Never feeling like they fit in, always wanting attention from someone, anyone. He was starting to get the picture.
Brittany had left from her house around eight thirty. It was overcast but not raining yet. The whole town was still under thaw, as the winter had lasted too long, and spring refused to show up. The girl wore prissy white sneakers, probably her only pair. She went to the forest where Abigail, her idol, told her they’d meet. It started to rain, then pour, and sad Brittany, knowing she’d been stood up, would start the trek home.
It was muddy, the path a mess, and she was caught in the storm that Tom saw hit the radar. He’d experienced the same storm at home in Gilden, around the same time. He remembered watching TV, the lightning flashing through his living room window.
Brittany’s shoe got stuck in the mud, the one he found. She lost it and kept going with one, barefoot. Why? Why didn’t she bend over and pick it up from the mud? Something didn’t add up. Was she being followed? Did the storm spook her?
From what Tom could guess, she’d made it home. The trash can had a muddy pair of jeans stuffed inside it, along with the other shoe and her socks. She was trying to hide the fact that she’d been out from her parents. She’d made it home safely and was going to sneak inside and go to bed.
But something prevented that from happening. She was taken there and then, as she stood in the rain, pants-less and shoeless. Tom closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples firmly.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Abigail asked him, and he looked at his notepad. He’d drawn a stick figure walking down a path. A black figure stood behind her ominously. He shivered and flipped the page.
“Beer? And she took the bait?” Tom asked.
“I guess so. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for anything bad to happen. Where is she?” Abigail asked, and for the first time, Tom thought he saw real concern for Brittany.
“I don’t know. I’m going to need the full names of your friends Netta and Clarice, please.” He slid a piece of paper over to her and sat back. He doubted they would have any information. Someone saw the young girl out in the storm, followed her home, and took her. It was clear. But who?
_______________
“This book sounds like a winner. I’m glad you’re jumping on the saddle.” Paul’s agent, Bradley Goldman, sat in his leather chair, hands steepled in front of him. He raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear about Red Creek?”
Paul had been waiting for this. “I did, and no, I don’t want to write a true crime book about it.”
Every year, Bradley begged him to write about his experiences in Red Creek. He’d released a novel loosely using the material, though all names of the people and the place had been adjusted. He’d made his own character a woman, and instead of a shadow monster, it had been a human in the end, a mentally disturbed old man who had an orange grove in Florida.
“You’d make millions. You could be on every late-night talk show and daytime panel you can imagine.” Bradley was grinning widely, and Paul wanted to tell him where to stick it. Instead, he faked a smile.
“If you know me at all, that’s my nightmare. Anyway, I think this book is good. The readers are going to like it,” Paul said.
“We want them to love it, not just like it, Paul. Can you make the bad guy a little flashier? And a machete, isn’t that overdone? How about he uses a scythe?” Bradley was typing on his laptop, and he swung the screen around to show a website image of the Grim Reaper.
“It’s kind of hard to swing a scythe in closed spaces. You let me worry about the story, and you sell it for as much as you can. Deal?” Paul asked, extending his hand.
“Sure. Sure.” Bradley shook it, and Paul stood up, ready to go. He could only handle so much from the agent. If he hadn’t been one of the top in the business, Paul would have replaced him years ago. “Think about it, Paul. Red Creek is calling for a book by you. It’s terrible what happened to that young girl, though. I hope they catch the bastard that took her.”
Paul wanted to ask him why he jumped to the conclusion that she was abducted, but he held his tongue. Truth was, statistically speaking, she probably had been kidnapped. As far as Paul knew, she wasn’t the runaway type.
“Talk soon.” Paul left the man’s ostentatious office, shutting the thick mahogany door. He waved at the young secretary and got into the elevator, happy to be heading home. It was Friday afternoon, and he wanted to tie up a few loose ends before he packed up to visit Taylor in the morning. She was going to be so surprised to see them all at Bellton.
Terri was booking a nice hotel nearby, and he could already picture Sunday brunch as a family. He’d never gone to a fancy college like Bellton and was so grateful he could afford Taylor the experience. She deserved it. To him, she’d always be that little girl he carried out from under Granny Smith’s Orchard. He struggled to see her as the adult she was now.
His phone rang, an
d he pulled it from his thin jacket’s breast pocket. It was Tyler.
“Sheriff Tyler. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Paul asked, his voice friendly.
“Hey, Paul. I shouldn’t be calling you with details like this, but you asked, so here it is. Gilden sent in a detective to work the case of Brittany Tremblay. The guy seems okay. He’s by the book and straight-laced, I think. Used to work homicide in Chicago, so he has a lot of experience. No idea what the hell he’s doing working out of Gilden PD now, and I don’t want to ask. Everyone has demons.” Tyler was rambling, and Paul pictured the big man sitting in his sheriff’s office with his black boots perched on his desk.
“Don’t I know it,” Paul muttered. “What else do you have?”
“Not much. She was abducted from her home. On the same street as your old house too. You don’t think it can have anything to do with… you know?” Tyler’s voice went low, as if he was afraid of someone listening in.
“You’re asking me? I’ve been gone from that for twelve years, bud. I know far less than you do about the town. My gut’s telling me they’re not related. I think we ended it that night,” Paul said, and he meant it.
“So do I. I’ll keep you posted but don’t spread it around. I gotta run. Detective Bartlett’s waiting for me to return his call, so I better check in with him. Have a good day, Paul.” Tyler sounded like he wanted to say more.
“What is it?” Paul asked.
“Probably nothing. But I’ve heard rumors of people seeing something in the forest again, and around the condo complex. And, of course, the ones from your old house. They all add up, Paul. All of them can’t be fake,” Tyler said.
Paul spoke with his old friend every couple months, and had ever since that day. They’d formed an unbreakable bond, all of them. Darrel, Nick, Tyler; and they often talked about Cliff, and their dead friend Jason. Paul had been privy to endless talk about hauntings around Red Creek, the forest monster, and sightings, but when no kids were taken for over a decade, the chatter had slowed.
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