Amber

Chapter 15

Mark

November 9, 2015

"There's no going back once we go in."

"I know."

I study Daniel's eyes, searching for fear or hesitation or any sign that I'd be better off going in alone. "You could stay in the car."

"No. If something really is going on here ... I mean, if this is the house, then you'll need my help." He inhales deeply. "I'm coming with you."

It's a lot to ask of a friend, but he's used to it now.

"Then you know what could happen if we're wrong. If we bust in there, and it's some older couple sitting down to their late night tea, knitting scarves or some shit, we're going to have to book it out of there."

He nods, inhaling again. "I get it. I can do this."

"Here," I say, handing him his mask and watching him struggle to put it on over his glasses.

"You can't leave them behind?"

The mask is half on, but I can picture the look of irritation on his face. "Not if I want to see."

"Just relax, kid. Don't get yourself worked up." I pull my own mask over my face and feel the itchy cloth instantly warming my skin. Then I reach for the baseball bat resting on the backseat. "Leave that to me."

I've accepted that this is a no-win situation. If we go in the house and find nothing, we're going to have to run for our lives. It's a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, so they probably have a gun, or—more likely—several of them. At the very least they have a pitchfork or something. They don't need any more of a reason to shoot than the simple fact that we're breaking in through a window wearing menacing masks and carrying a baseball bat. Fuck, I'd shoot too.

Best-case scenario—this is our guy, the creep who took Hailey and Lauren. We bust in and find him there jacking off in his living room, and I bash his head in once he tells me where they are. Daniel rescues them and drives them home while I go away for thirty to life for murder and only see Lauren through the other side of a glass wall for the rest of our days.

Still ... it's all better than the alternative—I do nothing, and she dies.

We've had our eyes on this place for almost a week now. We come by and park right here across the street down the road about fifty yards every night and we watch. We watch the house. We see the same thing every night.

Movement.

At unnatural times of the night for there to be movement. We see smoke from the chimney at one in the morning. We see lights turned on in rooms past two in the morning. We watch a heavy-set shadow stumble out of the side door at three in the morning, walk into his barn dragging full trash bags, and disappear for a while before returning without them.

There are no cars on the property, only tractors and empty trailers. We never see anyone coming or going, even during the times Daniel and I traded turns coming here during the day. Whoever lives here always stays in the house—as if afraid to leave.

The house is in the middle of nowhere on a rarely used road of gravel, completely surrounded by fields and dying trees. There's also the fact that Lauren's voice is loudest in my head every time we drive up to this place.

That's not exactly go-to-the-police-and-demand-a-warrant type of evidence. But it's good enough for me to risk being shot at for the peace of mind in knowing I at least checked it out.

The moon sits atop the house tonight, perched on the angled roof above the closed shutters on the second story like heaven is marking the place as our prime suspect. The night is cold, made even colder by the wind blowing at our backs as we exit the car and start walking along the road, keeping off to the side farthest from the house. It's a little past 2 a.m., and all of the lights clicked on downstairs about an hour ago.