MY HEAD RESTED ON A STUFFED BEAR. UNDER Aynslee’s bed were a pair of jeans and a sock. The chill from the hard floor seeped into my side. I pushed up and got to my knees, then waited until the room stopped swirling. Vomit burned the back of my throat.
I stood and aimed toward the kitchen, reeling from side to side, holding on to the wall for support. Once there, I snatched up the phone and dialed. Nothing happened. Of course, you idiot, the phone’s dead.
Remain calm. I moved back to the studio, looking for any clues to the girls’ location. Methodically I advanced through the living room, my bedroom, then Aynslee’s room. It didn’t look as if Aynslee had changed her clothes, but it was hard to tell with the clutter. I forced myself to look at the bed again. A considerable amount of dirt clung to the fabric.
Aynslee didn’t have a key.
The thought pounded into my brain. How did they get into the house? I sprinted to the kitchen, unlocked the door, and checked under the plastic dog poop. No key. Bars covered all the windows. Circling around toward my car, I checked the access to the crawl space. It was unlatched. Returning inside, I looked in the pantry.
The trapdoor was in place, but dirt rimmed the edge.
I forced my brain to think logically. The girls got in through the crawl space. They ate. Mattie must have helped herself to my drugs. Probably Mattie, still very weak and sleepy from the meds, lay down to take a nap.
Someone came to the door. What ruse had he used to get Aynslee to open it? A promise to call me? A message? And it had to be someone Aynslee knew or would trust.
I started down the hallway toward the front of the house but paused in front of the office. A slight odor I couldn’t immediately identify came from behind the closed door.
Reaching for the knob, I froze. I did know that smell. Copper, sulfur, and singed hair.