I crouched in the woods behind a tree, looking and listening. Was there anyone inside the house?
I couldn't see anything. The house was dead and dark. Nothing stirred behind its windows. All I could hear was the distant sound of an occasional car traveling down an adjacent road and my own heartbeat crashing against my skull.
She was probably gone.
Or maybe she wasn't here at all. Maybe she was some other place with distinctive windowsills, and I was completely off base.
A low whistle cut through the silence.
I froze, gripping the tree trunk. My heart thudded even faster.
There was someone inside that house, and he was whistling "Oh My Darling, Clementine."
Oh God. I swallowed hard, unsure of what to do.
Was it the person who'd captured Naomi?
I had to get closer. I had to see.
I stayed low as I left the cover of the woods, darting through the overgrown lawn until I was right at the house. I flattened myself against the dingy siding, struggling to keep my breath soft and steady.
I could swear I was gasping far too loudly.
The whistling continued uninterrupted.
He hadn't heard me.
Slowly, I crept along the side of the house until I came to a window. I peered inside.
It was the old kitchen. The appliances had long been ripped out, and there was only a sink along the wall, its faucet glinting dully in the moonlight. The paint on the cabinets was warped and peeling from the heat of the fire.
I moved past the window to the next one.
That window had been busted open, and there were shards of glass outside. They crunched under my feet as I got close.
I stopped moving at the noise, trying to melt into the house.
The whistling stopped.
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Slow Burn Page 26
