Chapter 11 #2
She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to figure out the best move to make.
She could call Graham and tell him she’d found Connie, but a sliver of resistance nagged at her gut.
He still believed she wasn’t being honest with him.
She’d come to this house with hopes to find Becca, and to find something to convince him she was a victim in this whole thing.
Not an accomplice. Besides, she had no idea how much time she had before Connie and the man came back.
If she waited for Graham to come to check things out, she could miss her chance to find Becca.
“I need to get a closer look at the house.”
“No, you don’t. You need to call the authorities. These people are dangerous, and you’re only going to get yourself killed if you get out of your car and try to save the day.”
A shiver of fear raced up her spine. She couldn’t argue with her friend.
Lydia was right. It would be dangerous and stupid to go up to a house where a woman that had tried to kill her lived.
But she didn’t care. Wherever Becca was, she was more afraid and more alone than Mickey had ever been. She had to act…now.
“Sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
“Mick—”
Mickey ended the call. Add guilt to the kaleidoscope of emotions twirling through her mind. Unclasping her seatbelt and stepping out of the car, she pushed Lydia’s frantic voice from her brain and crossed the street to the house.
The soft melody of crickets sang into the night and her heels slapped against the brick pathway to the front porch.
The rain no longer came down in sheets, but the drizzle left over from the storm spat down on her and coated her.
Goosebumps prickled over her skin as she approached the looming old Victorian.
Green, a shade darker than the painted siding, outlined the windows and the scalloped peaks of the roof.
The trim appeared to grow darker as it slid down the side of the house, until it bled into the dark gray of the porch, almost as if tears were falling into a dark abyss.
Prickle of fear puckered on her neck and she glanced around. Not a person in sight. Lights shone from the windows of the neighboring houses, but no shadows flitted across the closed shades.
Mickey stepped onto the front porch and the semi-rotted wood sagged beneath her weight.
Her gaze darted around and indecision froze her feet to the ground.
Did she walk in and pray no one had been left to watch the house?
Should she ring the bell, and then pretend as if she was lost if someone answered?
Ring the bell.
Gathering her courage, she pressed the yellow-stained bell on the side of the door.
Nervous energy zipped through her and she wiggled her toes in an effort to get it the hell out of her.
She strained her ears for any indication someone was coming to the door, but nothing but the call of the crickets filled her ears.
Two small windows separated by a metal bar nestled in the middle of the door. Mickey stood on her tiptoes and peered into the dark house.
Nothing.
She needed to get a better look inside. Her trembling fingers circled the knob, but it didn’t budge when she tried to turn it.
Dammit.
Mickey hurried down the porch stairs and searched for other windows to look into.
The foliage was thick around the front of the porch, and wet vines brushed against her ankles as she rushed around the side of the house.
At least she hoped they were vines. She didn’t focus on it as she searched for a way to see inside the house.
Blinds or curtains or God knows what covered all of the windows at her level.
Her heels sunk into the soft, moist grass and tendrils of wet hair slipped from the bun at the nape of her neck.
She let the limp strands linger on her cheek and concentrated on the overgrown shrubs hiding the side of the house.
Shifting a wayward branch, a beam of moonlight bounced off glass on the bottom of the house.
A window. She shimmied through the branches and the jagged twigs scraped against her leg.
She rested a palm on the peeling paint of the siding to steady herself, and then dropped to her knees to look into the window.
She wiped the caked-on dirt off the glass with the hem of her skirt and leaned in close.
Thick block glass clouded her view, but she narrowed her gaze to center the objects in her line of vision.
And her blood turned cold.
Dirty cots lined one wall of the dingy basement. She couldn’t make out the rough outline of the objects littered around the room, but one piece called to her and there was no denying what it was or who it belonged to. A bright pink backpack with a glittery, black embroidered B on the front pocket.
Becca was here.
Hope surged inside Mickey and adrenaline coursed through her veins.
She burst through the wedge of shrubs. The sharp edges scraped across her flesh, but she surged on.
She had to get inside. She broke free of the gnarled weeds and ran toward the front of the house.
One heel sunk into a patch of mud and she struggled to pull her foot from the glue-like goo.
She pulled, grunting as she stumbled forward and out of her shoe.
She shot her arms in front of her as she fell, but her palms slid on the slick blades of grass and her face smashed against the ground.
Pain punctured her nose, but she jumped to her feet, pulled off her other shoe, and ran up the steps to the porch.
Splinters scraped against her bare feet and she pushed on the door handle.
The ancient wood of the doorframe buckled, and she summoned all the strength she had for one more push.
The door swung open and Mickey stumbled forward but managed to keep her balance.
She charged into the house and the stench of rotting food and garbage slammed into her nostrils.
She coughed and fought the overwhelming urge to gag.
Darkness enveloped her. One tiny shaft of moonlight flitted through the slit of the open door. But that’s all she needed.
Blinking to adjust to the dark, she followed the shaft of moonlight down the hallway and into the kitchen.
The outline of days’ worth of dishes sat in the sink.
Pizza boxes and empty take-out containers took over the counter.
A door stood open and Mickey glanced down the wooden stairs that led to the basement.
She sucked in a deep breath and cringed as the stale, rotten air entered her lungs.
She could do this. She had to do this. Becca could be down there.
She flicked the light on for the stairwell and the coolness of the top step seeped into her foot.
She descended the stairs and pulled in a deep breath.
Dear God, please let Becca be down here and no one else… Otherwise she’d likely just served herself up on a silver platter to the enemy.