Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jo didn’t sleep very well that night and woke early. She wrapped her arms around herself as she stepped out onto the porch, her breath fogging in the crisp air. She glanced around, hoping—praying—for a glimpse of Pickles curled up on the porch, waiting for breakfast like he always did.
But the porch was empty. The box and blankets, usually occupied by the scruffy tabby, were empty.
She blew out a frustrated breath, her eyes darting over the yard.
Pickles hadn’t come back last night. She thought of the note still sitting ominously on the kitchen counter—Secrets always come out.
It hadn’t left her mind for a second. And now, with Pickles missing, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the two things were connected.
Behind her, the door creaked as Bridget stepped outside, pulling her coat tight around her thin frame. Jo didn’t have to ask to know that her sister had barely slept either.
“Still nothing?” Bridget asked, though the answer was obvious.
Jo shook her head. “No. And it’s not like him to stay gone this long. He’s been on the porch every night since it got cold.”
Bridget rubbed her arms, her face pale in the cool morning light. “You think... You think the person who left the note did something to him?”
Jo’s gut twisted at the question. It was the same fear that had gnawed at her all night. Whoever left that note—they weren’t just trying to scare her. They wanted to send a message. And maybe Pickles had been part of that message.
“I don’t know,” Jo said finally, her voice low. “But we need to find him.”
“I can’t just sit here anymore,” Bridget muttered, already stepping off the porch, her eyes scanning the edge of the woods. “I’m going to look for him. Now.”
Jo nodded, slipping her phone out of her pocket and hitting Sam’s contact. He’d said he would come by this morning to pick up the note as evidence. Maybe he could help them search. The phone rang twice before he picked up.
“I’m on my way,” Sam said, his voice brisk but warm. “I’m about five minutes out. Just getting Lucy loaded into the truck.”
Jo glanced back toward the woods, the trees casting long shadows over the yard. “Can you meet us in the woods behind the house? Pickles is still missing. I think... I think something’s wrong.”
There was a brief pause, then Sam’s voice dropped, concerned. “I’ll be there. Don’t go too far in without me.”
Jo hung up and turned to Bridget, who was already several steps ahead, pacing along the tree line.
“Sam’s on his way,” Jo called after her, jogging to catch up. “Let’s start searching while we wait.”
Bridget barely nodded, her eyes fixed on the trees, worry etched into her every movement. The two of them stepped into the woods, the morning light filtering weakly through the branches overhead. The air was damp, and the smell of wet earth clung to everything.
Jo’s instincts kicked in as they began to search, her eyes sweeping the ground, looking for any sign of tracks, broken branches, something that might indicate someone had been there or where Pickles had gone. But there was nothing. No sign of him at all.
“Pickles!” Jo called out, her voice cutting through the silence.
Bridget echoed her call, but the woods remained still. Too still. Jo could feel the weight of the trees pressing in around them, the quiet making her skin prickle with unease.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as they moved deeper into the woods, their footsteps crunching on the underbrush.
Jo’s mind kept circling back to the note, to the possibility that someone had taken Pickles to send a message.
Her frustration grew with each passing moment, the silence of the woods only feeding her anxiety.
Just as Jo was about to suggest they head back and wait for Sam, she heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible meow in the distance.
She froze, her heart skipping a beat. “Did you hear that?”
Bridget’s head whipped around, her eyes wide. “Pickles?”
Jo strained to hear, her pulse quickening. There it was again, a soft, pathetic meow—fainter this time but unmistakable.
Jo started toward the sound, adrenaline spiking through her as she and Bridget weaved through the trees, the meows growing louder, more desperate.
But before they could get too far, the rumble of an engine caught Jo’s ear.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw the familiar White Rock Police Station Tahoe pulling into the driveway. Sam.
The moment Sam stepped out of the truck, Lucy leaped out behind him, her tail wagging but her ears pricked up, alert. Sam gave Jo a nod, and she waved him over, her heart pounding with the urgency of the situation.
“We heard him,” Jo said as Sam jogged over. “He’s close.”
Sam glanced down at Lucy, who was already sniffing the air, her keen senses immediately kicking in. “Lucy can help. Let’s follow her lead.”
Without waiting for further instruction, Lucy’s nose hit the ground, and she moved swiftly into the trees, her body low and her focus sharp. Jo felt a flicker of hope as they fell in behind her, Lucy guiding them deeper into the woods.
The meows were louder now, more frequent but still distant, as if they were coming from somewhere hidden. Jo’s stomach twisted with the thought of what they might find—what could have happened to Pickles.
Lucy moved with purpose, weaving between trees and over fallen branches, her nose pressed close to the ground. Her ears flicked with every sound, and Jo knew the dog was picking up something.
“Good girl, Lucy,” Sam muttered as they followed her deeper into the woods. “Keep going.”
Bridget’s face was tense, her eyes darting from tree to tree as the meows grew louder, more insistent. Jo could feel the tightness in her chest as they pressed on, her mind racing with possibilities—none of them good.
Lucy suddenly stopped, her head jerking toward an old, rotted tree just ahead. Jo saw it before the others did—the mouth of a well, its crumbling stone rim barely visible beneath layers of overgrown moss and vines.
The meows echoed up from the darkness, faint but unmistakable.
“Oh no,” Bridget whispered, her voice trembling. “He’s down there.”
Jo rushed forward, her flashlight beam sweeping over the well’s edge as she knelt beside it. The dark hole yawned beneath her, and as she peered down, her breath caught in her throat.
There, huddled at the bottom, was Pickles—his fur matted, his eyes wide with terror. He let out another pathetic meow, his body trembling with fear.
“We need to get him out of there,” Jo said, her voice tight with urgency.
Sam was already moving, pulling out his phone to call for backup. “Stay calm. We’ll get him.”
But even as the relief of finding Pickles washed over her, Jo couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker was lurking just beneath the surface.
Had Pickles simply fallen into the well, or had someone thrown him in?