FORTY-EIGHT

My decision’s made in a split second. I leap from the Jeep, slam the trunk closed with everything inside, then bolt across the road again. This time, I run right up the Ramirez ranch drive, past the horses and the rebuilt barn and straight on toward the guest cottage. I’m not worried about being seen. I’m worried about Cate and I’m worried about me, and there’s only one person on this earth who knows my sister better than I do.

Danny.

I want to talk to him.

I need to.

My lungs burn, but I push on.

This is either a fool’s errand or a hero’s quest.

 

 

As I approach the guest cottage, a whimper of relief escapes me. The lights are on and Danny’s white pickup’s parked up against a redwood tree. I run faster. It’s not only the thought of help that overwhelms me. It’s the not being alone in all this.

The rain’s tapered off but water pools along the night-darkened ground. The combination of poor vision and damp stiff clothes means I barely make the leap from the ground up the narrow stairs to the redwood deck without falling ass over teakettle. I skid, steady myself, then rush to the French doors and pound on the glass.

No answer.

I pound more. I press my nose against the pane. The entire living space is visible, lit up by a wagon-wheel chandelier that hangs over the center of the room. Each of the individual bulbs glows like a lit torch, sending multicolored flares through the rain-streaked glass, but there’s no movement from inside. Gritting my teeth, I yank the door handle.

It opens with a low creak.

I take a tentative step in. I cup my hands together and stage-whisper, “Danny?”

Nothing.

I say it louder. “Danny!”

My voice echoes back at me, but nothing else. I gird myself and walk all the way inside, skirting the unfolded futon and plush cream rug. My knee knocks against an end table. It wobbles, but manages to stay upright.

In the kitchen area things are more puzzling. A cracked ceramic plate with crumbs on it sits beside the sink, along with a half-empty bottle of Corona. I grab the beer. The bottle’s almost full and the glass is still cold.

Strange.

I take a quick look in the bathroom, which is the only space that’s separate from the rest of the cottage, but the door’s open and the light’s off. Danny’s simply not here.

But he can’t be far. Perhaps he’s visiting up at the main house or got called down to the barn.

Thud-whack!

I gasp and twist around.

Thud-whack!

I jump again, but it’s only the French door. I didn’t secure it when I came in, so now the black night wind’s pushing it around, banging it against the frame, like something outside wants to get in real bad. Air slides from my lungs in relief. I steal a glance at the thick white rug. And freeze.

Large wet footprints cover the floor. Brown, sopping ones. Ones that weren’t there before.

They definitely weren’t.

Heart pounding and hands tingling, my gaze follows their path. They go all the way across the room, past the rug, the end table, the futon.

Straight to me.

I look down.

At my own mud-caked boots.

I start to tremble. A creeping sense of doubt crawls up my spine to nest in the darkest of my cortex. It’s a familiar feeling, dizzying and homespun and irrepressible. Like an itch I can’t scratch. Like a thought I can’t silence. Like a—

A sharp buzzing gets my attention. My head swivels to see Danny’s phone—it’s on vibrate, which makes it jitter around on the kitchen counter where he left it. I reach over and grab it.

The screen informs me that there’s a new text from someone named August. I don’t know if that’s a guy or a girl. The message reads, look asshole you coming tonight or what? so my instincts say guy, although I always thought girls were the ones named after months.

I scroll through the other apps on the home page, eager for information, for anything. Other than the fact that his wallpaper is a photo of him and Cate from high school, the only thing out of the ordinary that I see is in the call log. Danny’s made a ton of outgoing calls to the same number recently. More than a ton. Ten times in one hour.

I hit redial.

The phone rings and rings and rings. No voice mail picks up. Nothing.

I hang up.

I stare at the call log some more. Then I pull my own phone out and dial the exact same number.

Cate answers on the first ring.

“Hey, little brother,” she says. “Guess I know where to find you now, don’t I?”