Chapter Sixteen
Mitchell had insisted on daily debriefs, where we shared every detail of our day, no matter how small. So, we gathered in the unit June and I shared to go over everything that had happened.
In his notebook, he jotted down bullet-pointed lists of what we’d learned and carefully marked the places we’d visited on the map.
He stayed fully engaged, speaking with steady focus while the rest of us struggled to stay alert.
I could tell he was pushing through, trying to recover from his outburst and prove he still had value.
But honestly, I just wished he’d let us go to bed.
Weariness settled over the room like a thick blanket. Nick looked completely checked out. His vacant stare gnawed at my nerves, and I couldn’t help but wonder if his mind was still on the odd woman from the store. Tilly.
"So, assuming Amanda did go to the cemetery, where does that lead us?" Mitchell spoke aloud, thinking.
I sat up straighter, hoping I would sound more authoritative. "Sammy saw the same symbol Amanda had photographed."
"Not exactly," Nick corrected. "He mentioned seeing some symbols, but we didn’t get a chance to show him Amanda’s photo before the Reverend kicked us out."
"Then we should find him again. And Duane—"
June’s eyes narrowed. "That Reverend is shady. I think he lied about seeing that kid. He knows him."
Mitchell’s expression turned wistful. "Mama used to say, ‘Liars, cheaters, and thieves—’" He trailed off, his hand brushing across his face as if wiping away the memory.
June’s lips curled into a nostalgic smile. "Yeah, she did."
The page in his notebook was titled "Amanda, Cemetery." I wanted to confront Mitch about how I felt, about how he was neglecting Lucas in our search, but the last thing I needed was an argument. I was too emotionally drained.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Back in our room, June was glued to her phone.
I sat on the bed, a decision brewing. The ‘good girl’ in me urged caution, suggesting I wait till tomorrow to approach Duane.
After all, we were supposed to maintain the buddy system and confronting a madman with a gun was dangerous.
Another part of me, the feral creature I squirmed to contain, snarled that enough was enough.
It was time to take matters into my own hands.
Every detail from our encounters that day seemed off. The magic shop owner, the cemetery, the church, the little boy, the photograph. So disconnected. They were like loose threads, refusing to weave into a coherent tapestry.
I knew Duane held the key to unraveling this mess. Something had been going on between him and Lucas. And that’s why I needed to talk to Duane alone.
I walked towards the door. June didn’t look up from her phone when she asked in a sing-song voice, "Where are you going?"
"To get some air. I’ll be right back."
"No, you’re not." She was quick as a dart when she blocked the exit with folded arms. "You’re driving somewhere." She eyed my fist where I held the car key like a secret. "You know you’re not supposed to go anywhere alone. Is this about my brother?"
I hated lying, and I was terrible at it. My mother could always tell when I tried to deceive her, so I gave up instantly.
"I just want to check on something. It won’t take long. Will you cover for me?"
"Tell me where you’re going, and I’ll think about it."
I cleared my throat and confessed, "To talk to Duane."
June’s jaw flexed. "So it is about my brother."
"It’s not. It’s about Lucas."
June picked up her jacket from the bed. "I’m coming with you."
"If your brother finds out, he’ll kill me before I can say ‘over and out’."
"I’m my own person. So, what, you’re just not going to go because I want to tag along?" She was calling my bluff.
I weighed my options. June might not have been old enough to drink, but she was old enough to make her own decisions. Even if Mitchell got mad at me, we were still following his orders, sticking together.
"Fine. But you say nothing about this. To anyone."
"If he’s still drunk, I know how to get him to sober up," June said as we pulled out of the parking lot.
I raised an eyebrow. "Quite the expertise."
June’s bucket of water trick had worked briefly, but almost got us shot. The confidence and quiet anger with which she executed the action last time made me wonder where she got that kind of experience.
"My dad was a drunk," she said, as though reading my thoughts.
"Did he quit?" My dad, a contractor, had worked with many AA members, so the story wasn’t new to me.
"Kind of. He’s in jail now."
I let the silence stretch out, sensing that June had already revealed more than she was comfortable with.
But the few details she’d shared were already fitting into a troubling narrative.
And a worrying thought began to take shape: the siblings’ reluctance to talk about their family might be connected to Amanda’s disappearance.
It was possible that Mitchell’s obsession with finding Amanda wasn’t just about duty or brotherly love. It was guilt. The same kind of guilt that drove me to search for Lucas, because for a while, I truly believed his disappearance had something to do with me.
The neighborhood was punctuated by warm lights spilling from nearby houses, but Duane’s house loomed ahead, its windows like empty eyes, foreboding and unwelcoming.
I knocked softly on the front door and waited in silence. No one answered.
June whispered, "Is he ever home? Or do we have to fish him out of that bar again?"
I shot her a look. I was already on edge, and her comments were more than I could handle right now. We waited a bit longer, then I tugged at the door to see if it would open. It was locked.
"Let’s try the side door."
Like last time, it was open.
"What’s the point of locking the front door if anyone can just walk in here?" June grumbled.
We stepped into the kitchen, but this time, it was pitch-black.
June wrinkled her nose. "What’s that smell?"
A pungent, chemical stench hit me, unmistakable from the days I’d spent helping my dad with garage renovations. "Paint."
"That’s weird."
It was. I seriously doubted Duane had woken up and decided to start a home project. More likely, he’d knocked over a jar of paint while stumbling around with a hangover. But the sharp, acrid reek still made my skin crawl. It didn’t belong here.
"Duane?" I called, desperately groping along the wall for the light switch. "It’s Nellie. We came by today. Can we talk?"
Finally, my fingers found the switch. A dim, grimy bulb flickered to life, casting a weak yellow glow that clung to the room like smoke.
"It’s even worse than I remember," June said, surveying the mess.
"Duane?" I called again, hoping he wasn’t the type to shoot intruders before asking questions.
We made our way into the living room, and as soon as we entered, I knew why paint fumes hung in the air. Duane had painted over all the symbols on the walls. The color didn’t match. Sloppy patches of navy blue clashed with the original dingy off-white, stained by years of stale cigarette smoke.
"Why did he do it?" June asked.
There was something off about the room. "I don’t know," I said. "Let’s keep looking."
I hurried June out of there and made my way to the pantry. The door creaked open. Nothing but some cans of soup and an old, opened bag of rice, all covered in dust.
June flicked a grain. "What are we even trying to find?"
"Anything. Whatever doesn’t feel right or seems connected to Lucas and Amanda."
"Nothing feels right here," June grimaced, then ventured into Duane’s bedroom. I heard the soft click of the light switch, followed by the opening and closing of closet doors.
The second bedroom was crammed nearly to the ceiling with old furniture, boxes, and random knick-knacks, all cloaked in thick cobwebs and dust. I flipped the greasy light switch, but nothing happened. The bulb must have burned out.
Trying not to touch anything, I picked my way through the piles of junk, lighting my path with the faint glow of my phone’s flashlight.
Shadows stretched and recoiled with every movement, warping into shapes that looked ready to pounce.
But when I turned the beam on them, they vanished, revealing only forgotten clutter.
The room wasn’t small, but the chaos and clutter made it suffocating.
Scattered possessions crowded every surface.
A few steps into this hoarder’s nest, and the exit stood impossibly far away.
Surrounded by abandoned furniture, stacked chairs, empty bookshelves, and piles of clothes, I was trapped in a labyrinth of junk.
If something jumped out from behind one of the cupboards or out of the closet, I wouldn’t even manage to run through the mess.
What a cliché horror scene that would be.
June would get a kick out of it. Something gossamer brushed against my face, I jerked back, panicking and trying to swipe it away.
"Everything okay in there?" I called through to the girl, not so much to check on her but to remind myself I wasn’t alone.
"Yeah, I’m good."
Her voice calmed my nerves a bit.
I tugged the sleeves of my hoodie down and began sifting through a few items, moving some books aside to see what lay beneath.
Old detective novels, romance paperbacks, and stacks of newspapers.
Nothing seemed to have been touched in a long time.
There wasn’t anything that would interest me in any way.
No mysterious symbol carved or painted into the furniture, no books on the occult, nothing.
I opened a few drawers from the old, creaky chest by the wall, wincing at the foul stench of rotten rugs and decaying papers. Inside were school notebooks and stacks of correspondence, mostly junk mail.
Duane must not have been in this room for a long time.
"Nellie," June called, "can you help me?"
I hurried over, my eyes catching on old pictures that had fallen from the wall. If I hadn’t been to the house before, I would have thought it was a crime scene.
June was crouched beside the bed, reaching under the mattress.
"There’s something. Can you lift this?"
I grabbed the corner of the sagging mattress and heaved it up. June reached underneath and pulled out—
Several old porn magazines.
"Ew!" she flung them onto the bed, shaking her hand like it was contaminated.
"Can’t believe someone still uses analog porn," I muttered, ignoring the quick thump of my heart.
She shot me a glare, but her expression quickly crumpled, like a child on the verge of tears.
"This is so disgusting," she said, still flicking her fingers as if trying to rid them of whatever she’d touched.
"Come on, let’s wash it," I said, leading her to the bathroom and turning on the faucet.
The bathroom was as filthy as the rest of the house.
Soap scum and grime encrusted the sink, and cigarette butts littered the floor.
The air reeked of mold and stagnation. The toilet appeared not to have been cleaned in months.
Or years. Beside it, a dusty beer can stood abandoned next to a grimy bottle of Clorox as if the two were keeping each other company.
The bathtub sat hidden behind a mildewed, tattered curtain.
There was no towel in sight, only a filthy rug shoved behind the heater. June shook the water off her hands and wiped them on her jeans. I turned off the faucet.
Only then did we notice the dripping. A slow, steady rhythm, tapping on unseen water.
June and I exchanged glances. I exhaled, stretched out my arm, and yanked the curtain aside.
In the half-second it took to do so, gruesome images flashed through my mind—Duane, bloated and lifeless.
But the tub was empty. Just an inch of stagnant, yellowish water and a few soggy cigarette butts. I dragged out an uneven breath.
June’s shoulders relaxed. "Can we go now?"
We made our way back through the kitchen, and I caught sight of something in passing. I turned the light toward the shelf lined with rows of mismatched jars.
One stood out. A red plastic container of instant coffee, nestled among the condiments and canned soups.
Lucas had used the same kind to stash his lucky nicknacks. He once confided that since childhood, it had been his go-to hiding spot for "treasures."
I stepped closer, pulled the jar from the shelf, and twisted the lid off. No coffee, just old paper and photographs.
June peered over my shoulder. "Jeez, is it more porn?"
"I don’t think so," I said, spreading the contents across the table. Photos, printouts with MISSING stamped on them. A few newspaper clippings about disappearances. A cold knot twisted in my stomach.
June picked up a picture. "What’s this?"
"I’m not sure." I flipped one over. October 12, 1986. June turned to another. October 1, 1998.
"They all have dates," she whispered.
The faces, some warped by grainy photocopies, and the stark lettering flickered before my eyes: ‘MISSING’, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON?’, ‘LAST SEEN WEARING...’.
There were so many.
"Grab them," I said, already stacking the papers in my arms. "And let’s get out of here."
We switched off the lights and retraced our steps through the side door in the kitchen. Outside, the darkness had deepened, but a dim hue from the backyard light cast long shadows over the garage.
June suddenly halted. "The garage door is open."
The old overhead door was shut, but the side door hung ajar. There could have been plenty of reasons for that, but something about it felt wrong. A slow, creeping sense of finality settled in my bones.
"Stay here," I instructed June, and for once, she obliged.
I lifted my phone, using the flashlight to cut through the gloom.
There were parts of an old car with no hood, gas cans and tools.
I moved along the side, scanning the cluttered shelves.
Then, out of nowhere, something brushed my shoulder.
I shrieked, spinning around, the beam of light darting like a rabbit.
An old bike dangled from the ceiling. I must have bumped into it.
"I think there’s a light switch," June called from the doorway.
A second later, the garage flooded with light.
The first thing I saw was the wall smeared with splashes of red. Then, my gaze dropped to the ground. The pistol. The same one Duane had threatened us with.
And beside it—Duane.
He lay slumped on his side, face contorted and unrecognizable. A gaping hole consumed where his eye had been, flesh jagged and raw. The back of his head was a mess. Bone, hair, and blood indistinguishable. My stomach lurched. I stumbled back, my pulse hammering in my ears.
"Call 911!" I choked before doubling over and throwing up.
Duane was dead.