Chapter Fifty-Seven. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
Someone is moving in front of Sam Trimble’s house. I lean forward and peer through my windshield.
“What’s happening?” Betty asks.
“Sam is getting in the sisters’ car and they’re driving off. That’s going to make this a lot easier. Now we don’t have to wait for him to leave.”
I take out Betty’s wheelchair and help her into it. With the white gauze bandage still on her head, she appears to be the furthest thing from a threat. At least that’s what I’m counting on.
“Ready?” I ask, and she nods.
I once read that confidence is the best camouflage. Act like you belong, and people will buy into it. In case any neighbors are watching, I make sure to stride up to Sam’s front door with my shoulders back and my steps unhurried. When I twist the handle, I can’t believe my luck. It’s open.
I glance back at Betty, who’s still on the sidewalk in her wheelchair. A wild thought hits me: Maybe this is a trap. The sisters could have recognized my car and known I was coming.
I dismiss the fear; they didn’t even glance my way. I step inside, leaving the door a few inches ajar. I need sound to carry into the house in case Sam comes back soon.
The curtains are open, affording me plenty of natural light to look around.
Sam’s place is a mess. Books are scattered everywhere—on the couch, table, and floors—layered with mail, old newspapers, kicked-off shoes, and a few crumpled bags from fast-food restaurants.
A nearly empty bottle of bourbon sits on the coffee table next to a glass holding a watery brown liquid.
In the kitchen, dirty dishes clutter the sink and it smells sour.
I step deeper into the house, toward the rooms in the back. The first door I open is a study. It’s a disaster. Papers and books in precarious stacks top the desk, crumpled tissues that didn’t make it into the trash can litter the floor, and the carpet looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in decades.
My heart skips a beat when I glimpse a man out of the corner of my eye.
But it’s just a large framed portrait on a wall.
I step closer, studying the broad-shouldered man with dark, heavy eyebrows wearing a tweed jacket with big brown patches on the elbows.
He’s unsmiling beneath his beard. It’s Betty’s tormentor, Silas Trimble.
Captured on canvas, he still gives off a malevolent energy.
In the distance, I hear a high, faint cry. Is Betty calling out a warning? I hurry to the kitchen window. Betty is still on the sidewalk alone, looking like a sweet, helpless grandma in her pearls and sweater set.
The sound could have come from a bird. Or maybe it originated from inside the house. There are two doors in the kitchen. One has clear panes of glass on the top half and leads to the backyard. Anxiety ripples through me like a current as I reach for the handle of the second door.
It creaks when I open it, revealing a staircase descending into a dark space.
“Hello?” I call. There’s no answer.
I need to see what’s down there. But fear is immobilizing me. Who would notice if I disappeared? My family wouldn’t think anything of it if they didn’t hear from me for a week or so. And no one at all would be alarmed if Betty went missing.
I force myself to take the first step. My legs feel like jelly and my chest is tight. I don’t want to see whatever might be down there.
Then I hear Betty yelling.