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Three blocks later, it’s still a couple of cars behind me. I can’t make out the driver’s face. I decide to try and ease my nerves, convince myself that it’s only a coincidence that the green car is heading the same direction I am. I go on another tour of the neighborhood, careful of my surroundings while also keeping an eye on the sedan.
A few turns later, and it’s still there.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I mutter to myself and wonder if I should call Kellan and tell him about it. But as soon as I pull up outside the Johnsons’ place where I’m scheduled to meet them and discuss their remodeling project, the dark green sedan drives away and disappears at the far end of the street. I caught a glimpse of the license plate, though I’m not sure how useful that will be.
I may have overreacted. The driver could have been lost.
If I tell Kellan about it, it’ll prove his point about my safety. And if I can’t feel safe on my own, I will never feel safe anywhere. That’s not the kind of life I want to have. If I decide to go back to the mansion, and live with them again, it needs to be on my terms and with my mind at peace. I don’t want to go back to them because I don’t feel safe when I’m alone.
That would mean trading one trouble for another.
If I’m to tell Kellan that I was being followed by someone other than Wolfhound Security, whose unmarked vehicles and out-of-uniform agents I know by heart, then I need more than just a hunch. I need proof.
19
Kellan
We finally have a lead on a meth lab operation in Brady. There’s a few houses on the outskirts of town that were abandoned and reclaimed by the local council, but the absence of funding to refurbish and rent them out—along with the absence of prospective, respectable tenants—has left the units empty and derelict. Or so we’d thought until some of the local residents and neighbors started complaining about unsavory individuals being spotted in the area.
Loitering, broken beer bottles, vile threats being shouted for consecutive days—it’s enough of a pattern to have me driving down to Brady so I can see for myself. I park my car further up the road, closer to the residential area and the local school, then slowly walk back toward the houses in question. I’ve had my deputies roll past a couple of times every day for the last week or so, but nothing emergent occurred.
I go around the block once, checking the backyards for any dogs. Meth labs usually have a hound or two outside. They keep the poor animals out all day, always on high alert, knowing that the dogs will bark if anyone approaches. The yards are empty, sothat’s one box I cannot tick at this point. Back at the front of the trio of suspected units, I take my sweet time analyzing the neglected front lawns, the mailboxes overflowing with unopened envelopes, and the porches where dust and grime have gathered over the winter, along with a plethora of spiderwebs and other creepy crawlies.
“Come in, Chief,” Marlon reaches out through my walkie talkie.
“Talk to me,” I tell my deputy and await his response while keeping an eye on the window of the house in the middle. It looks dingy and close to its breaking point. A funny smell persists by the front door.
“We’ve had movement reported in Brady for the past hour,” Marlon says. “One of the neighbors called our dedicated hotline.”
“Did they describe a suspect?”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
“Go on,” I reply, rolling my eyes. I’ve heard some funky descriptions coming from these folks. At one point, I was convinced we were dealing with an Invasion of the Body Snatchers—eyewitness accounts can be sketchy sometimes.
“Tall, dark, and handsome.”
I can’t help but smile. “I don’t suppose they mentioned a sheriff’s uniform?”
“That would’ve been amazing,” Marlon chuckles. “But just keep an eye out, Chief.”
“Sure thing. I will keep an eye out for a tall, dark, and handsome suspect. Over and out.”
I check the front door and find it’s unlocked. A squatter’s paradise. Slowly, I listen to the silence creeping out from the house as I push the door wide open, letting the daylight flood the front room, revealing a sea of tossed papers, plastic wrappers, crumpled aluminum foil, and rat droppings. That’s the smell I was picking up earlier. They’ll need a solid round of pest control in here before they strip the place clean, otherwise they’ll never be able to rent this house out to anyone again.
“Sheriff’s Department. Is anybody here?” I call out.
Nothing. No movement. Not a single sound. As I enter, the floorboards creak under the weight of my boots. A shadow lingers in the corner of my eye but when I turn around, there’s nothing there. Just old furniture covered in dirt and more rat feces. Crinkling my nose, I try to get the smell out of my focus as I continue my tour of the silent house.
The kitchen is just as filthy, if not worse. The backdoor is wide open and barely hanging from its rusty hinges, the screen already fallen and gathering dust outside. There are footprints all over the floor—sneakers, judging by the impression—and fairly recent.
“Lincoln County Sheriff,” I say, louder this time. “Is anyone here?”
Still, no answer. The sight of discarded needles and syringes in the trash can have my instincts flaring, though. Bingo. Something was definitely going on here, but it could’ve been just junkies using the place to get their usual fix. Then I notice the kitchen scale and pieces of plastic wrap left on the counter with sprinkles of white and brownish dust, and I’m certain a lab test will reveal trace evidence of narcotics. I’m guessing crack and heroin. This isn’t the uppity neighborhood that it used to be.
Checking the bathroom, I find signs of life, sort of. Someone used the tub earlier. Droplets of water are still drying, leaving yellow spots on the pale blue enamel. There were definitely people in here, but they’re gone now. Whether they left in a rush because they saw me coming or they left earlier without a care in the world, I can’t be sure.
Upstairs, it’s a different story.
