Morning sunlight streams through the living-room window as I lift my head out of my hands. From my spot on what’s left of the couch, I glance around the room.
The place looks like a bomb went off. The whole house looks like this.
After hanging up with Mildred, I continued staring at the mirror in disbelief. Was I losing my mind or was I dreaming? I needed proof that what just happened had really happened. I went to the bedroom. The gun was there, lying on the bed, exactly where I had left it. I went downstairs. The back door was open, as was the basement. I checked the call log on my phone. There it was. Mildred had called me.
Yes. This was happening.
Uncontrollable terror set in.
I went to the basement and searched everywhere. No Caitlyn. I went outside into the backyard and called her name, but quietly enough that it wouldn’t carry to Mildred’s. I even waded into the water. She wasn’t outside. I went back into the house and began turning the place inside out, double checking every corner and behind every piece of furniture. I took everything out of the closets and threw it on the floor. I cleared out the cabinets in the kitchen. The whole time, I kept calling her name. At some point, I wasn’t just looking for Caitlyn. I was looking for any type of clue that would tell me where she was.
This went on for hours.
At last, I stood in the wreckage of the living room and was seized by paralysis.
I sank down on the couch and held my head in my hands, forced to accept a horrible truth.
Caitlyn’s gone.
As much sense as it doesn’t make, I have to accept it and I have no idea how to get her back.
I need help.
I have to call someone, but who? The cops? I know Caitlyn is here, somewhere in this house, but if I tell them what happened, they won’t believe me. They’ll just lock me up.
I could call Mildred. She can help me look but what if she comes over and sees this? She might call the cops anyway. I have to take that chance. She’s the only one who might listen to me.
I take out my phone, unlock the screen, and pull up the recent calls. Mildred’s number is right at the top. I’m about to hit ‘dial’ when my phone lights up with an incoming call. I don’t recognize the number.
I hit ‘accept’.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Price?” a woman’s voice asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m Dana Whitlock. I’m sorry to call so early, but you left a message yesterday. You wanted to speak to my grandfather?”
My mouth hangs open.
“… Mr. Price? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I did call.”
“Can I ask what it’s about?”
“Well … it’s about his grandfather, Theodore Whitlock.”
“Yes. You said that and that it has something to do with your house. Can you tell me more specifically what this is about?”
“It’s … It’s kind of a long story, but it has to do with something that happened in Kingsbrook concerning his grandfather’s employers, the Carringtons.”
“Yes, I understand that. It’s just …” She’s making no attempt to hide her frustration. “He wants to speak with you.”
“Oh. Okay. Can you put him on the phone?”
“Mr. Price, he’s ninety-five and very weak. He doesn’t do phone calls. He said he will only speak to you in person.”
There’s no way that I’m leaving this house. Not now.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”
“He said it was the only way.”
“Then, I’m afraid—”
“He also told me to ask you a question.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I don’t know why, but he wouldn’t leave me alone until I promised I would ask you.”
“What’s the question?”
“He wants to know, ‘She still can’t sleep, can she?’”