THE GUTTING BARN has a huge new padlock on it. It is the first observation that gives me any hope. I press my eye and then my good ear to the crack between the doors, hoping for any sign of what is inside. I’m met with darkness…silence. I turn, listening as the engine in the distance continues, without pause, past the front of the property, its grumble fading as it moves farther away. My phone vibrates, the movement startling me, and I crouch, tugging at my pocket until I get the phone in hand, then sliding my finger along the screen when I see Mike’s name.
“This better be important,” I breathe.
“Problem. Ralph’s credit card dinged three minutes ago at a BP station eight miles north of you. I don’t know the delay in posting…it could be anywhere from thirty seconds to fifteen minutes. But Jess, you need to get out of there now.” Mike’s voice is breathless, strain evident in his words, the rapid click of keyboard strokes sounding in the background.
“Fuck. What’s his cell phone say? Why didn’t you see him leave?”
“It’s still pinging at his house.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “He must have left it at home. It’s a stroke of luck the prick used his credit card.”
Urgency now coats my movement. I end the call and stuff the cell in my pocket, feeling a drip of sweat run down the side of my face. I tug at the lock in vain, then move to the window, trying it and then stepping back, measuring the distance before striding forward and kicking the glass. Visions of it splintering beneath my foot, an explosion of power, are overimagined—the only result of my kick is a spiderweb crack. I step back and try again, putting everything I have into it. My foot goes cleanly through, jagged edges of glass catching my leg as I pull my foot back. I tug my sweatshirt sleeve over my fist and knock out the sharp pieces, then hoist my body up and into the dark hole.
Fear.
It is a strange feeling, one I haven’t experienced since that night in my family’s kitchen. It invades me now, cutting off my breathing and finding its way into my heart, its grip reaching around and squeezing it tightly. Fear of the perversion inside that man. Fear of failure to protect Annie. Fear of wasting the homicidal rage within me.
I hang for a minute—half in the window, half out—my eyes trying to adjust to the room. There is a low table beneath me, and I bring one foot up to the sill and crawl down, stepping gingerly on the table until I am sure it can hold my weight. The room smells of death, a smell that brings me instantly back to my childhood kitchen. The flashback causes an uneasy curl in my stomach, and I try to table the emotion, to save the desire for a time when it will be best served. I hear something and freeze, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. I hear it again. A whimper—small and muffled. And it is in the room with me. Annie.