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I glance down at the black leather jacket I’d put over an old Janis Joplin tee, my skinny jeans and boots.
“Just dressing the part,” I wink, pleased he noticed.
We fall into step together, my legs working double-time to keep up with his long strides.
I am acutely aware of the line of trucks at the liquor store and how, although their windows are darkened by shadows, the people inside the vehicles are staring at us. Rhett is aware of this too, and has tilted his chin downward, as if this would do anything to mask his identity. His height and weight alone are enough to make him stand out in a crowd.
Chin up, shoulders back, Sylvia.
I slide behind the steering wheel as Rhett ducks into the passenger seat, plucking the grease-stained paper bag from the floorboard.
“What’s this?”
“Food,” I say, “eat.”
“Sylvia,” he releases an exasperated breath. “I’m not a stray dog. I’m getting along just fine.”
“I know—I have no doubt about it. But I got you food regardless, so instead of making a big deal out of it, why don’t you just eat it.” I shove the Jeep into reverse and send the line of liquor-store trucks a glare before pulling onto the road.
Rhett has devoured his bacon cheeseburger and is polishing off the last fry when we pull into Deep Shadows.
It is dark enough outside for the streetlights to click on. The homes are illuminated, both inside and out. It is dinnertime, and I imagine the residents tucked behind long dining tables, pretending to enjoy each other’s company while avoiding eye contact and sipping red wine—aside from the redheaded neighbor, Gloria, of course, who is probably staring out her window.
This time, I zip along the narrow, windy road. I don’t want to be seen. Two visits in one week would raise suspicion.
I am grateful that the old man who lives next to the abandoned house isn’t outside tending to his garden, like last time. In fact, the home is dark, not a single light on.
I click off my headlights and pull into the cracked driveway.
Rhett and I see it at the exact same time—a shadow darting past the front windows. Before I can turn off the engine, Rhett is out of the truck and sprinting to the back of the house.
“Dammit,” I shove the keys in my pocket and jump out. After checking over my shoulder, I jog to the front door. It’s locked.
I look in the windows, expecting to see Rhett confronting someone, but there is nothing—no movement, no sound.
I jog around the side of the house, my skin tingling with adrenaline, my senses working in overdrive as I strain to hear any noise or see any movement in my peripheral vision. I leap onto the back porch, careful to avoid the rotted planks of wood. The back door is standing wide open. But, still, it is silent. I squint into the surrounding trees, thinking maybe Rhett has chased whoever was inside into the woods.
My heart starts to pound. The lack of noise is unnerving.
I tentatively step over the threshold, and pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness. What remains of daylight pitifully seeps through smeared, cracked windows, allowing just enough illumination to discern shapes and objects in the rooms.
I step deeper into what appears to be a laundry room. A washer, dryer, a sink, and countertop, all covered in a thin layer of dust. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling, brown leaves cover a stained tiled floor. Dead insects are everywhere.
My heart is roaring as I step into the kitchen.
Like a wolf hovering over its prey, Rhett is towering over a small, boney woman, balled into a corner. Streaks of blood are running down his cheek—four long marks as if he has been clawed by a tiger. His fists are clenched, his chest heaving. The woman’s eyes are wild with fear, a deep rasp rattling her lungs as she inhales and exhales.
She clawed him, and based on the amount of blood, the wounds are deep and will likely scar.
The woman appears to be middle-aged, late forties or early fifties, and is as skinny as a toothpick. Her knees, bent and pulled up to her chest, look like two broken candle sticks. Tattoos cover almost every inch of her skin. Long, frizzed dreadlocks fall around her shoulders. A dozen necklaces hang around her neck and about the same number of bracelets teeter on her bird-like wrists. She is wearing multiple layers of clothing, a cardigan, a vest, over a long patch-style dress. No shoes. A backpack, drink, and food wrapper are on the floor not far from her.
She is attractive, I realize, despite the sunken-in sharp angles of her face. Feline-like blue eyes and a round sultry mouth, against fair skin, give her an ethereal look. No makeup, no frills, just a natural beauty. Like a fairy, or some exotic alien on the cover of a paranormal monster romance.
“Okay,” I lift my palms in a show of surrender, a feeble attempt to ease the tension. “Everybody calm down.”
The woman doesn’t take her eyes off Rhett. I understand how she feels. I remember the feeling I got when I first saw him looming over my garden. He is a terrifying presence, especially with blood dripping down his neck.
I slowly step forward, place my hand on Rhett’s arm. “Everything’s okay. Let’s just all calm down.” After a warning squeeze to Rhett’s bicep, I step in front of him, between him and the woman. “My name is Sylvia Stone.”
