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Carefully, I open the letter while mentally refreshing myself on the contents of the previous four letters.
3:02
3:04
3:11
You are next
Inside is a single white sheet of paper, just like the others.
Typed across the middle is a single line, a combination of letters and numbers, a total of 15 characters.
I frown, reading each character out loud.
Is it a password?
A code?
A passcode for a lock?
I glance out the window toward the mountains.
I know exactly who to ask.
35
Rhett
The deluge is relentless as I roll to a stop in the small gravel parking lot that marks the head of Fogmoore Trail. Unsurprisingly, the lot is vacant.
I tuck the Ziplock bag holding the envelope into my waistband, then slide the keys in my pocket and get out. Despite being almost eleven in the morning, the woods are dark, the thick clouds overhead dispersing the muted sunlight in a vivid, gloomy blue. A miserable, rainy day.
I dip my head against the rain and descend into the trees, following the same trail Sylvia and I walked days earlier, until I reach the secret footpath that leads to the caves.
The Hideout lives up to its name in this weather, barely visible behind the sheets of rain and swirling leaves.
I click on my pocket flashlight. The bottom of my boots are caked with mud, and the combination of mud and slime makes for a dangerous descent into the cave.
Drips echo around me.
After squeezing through the narrowest of openings, I see a dim light glowing from deeper in the cave.
My pace quickens.
There is only one person sitting in the large room at the end of the tunnel.
Jesse startles when he sees me, nearly falling backward in the folding chair he is sitting in. He appears to be doing nothing. Literally, staring at the wall. Only two flashlights illuminate the room, one a few flickers away from dying. Scattered around him are the same sleeping bags and empty bottles that I noticed during my first visit.
He quickly stands, but this time, it is less of a defensive posture, and more of one of embarrassment. Shame. He’s changed clothes, I notice. The black skull sweatshirt has been replaced by a long sleeve T-shirt riddled with holes. Jeans, and scuffed combat boots. No coat.
“You here alone?” I ask.
“Since about two hours ago, yeah.”
“You high?”
“No.”
