SHOULD SHE CONTINUE on to the address? Did she dare? The question looped through Tess’s head as she trudged through the forest. The fact that she was trudging in the direction of the town suggested she’d already made up her mind. The operator had said it was a rural address, and since she hadn’t given it to the man—John, if that was his real name—there was no chance he’d be waiting there. She would stay off the roads and keep her eyes open. It was nine now, dusk. Cars had their headlights on and were easy to spot even from these woods.
The terrain here was wild—a few farmers’ fields but mostly open meadows and grassy hills and forest patches. That made it easier. She found the main road and continued alongside it, sticking to the long grass and trees.
While she could see the town lit up against the coming night, she wanted to find Rue Montcalm. So each time the main road branched off, she had to scoot close enough to see the sign and then dart back. It was slow going, and the slower it went, the darker it got. Soon she’d passed the turnoff for the village and begun to consider the very real possibility that Rue Montcalm didn’t cross the main road at all. As she was about to reevaluate her plan, she saw the name on the next sign.
Rue Montcalm ended at the main road. There was only one way to go, which made it easier. What made it tougher was that it was now too dark to see house numbers unless she walked on the road. She’d be careful and keep her ears open for the sound of a truck.
The road had driveways only every few hundred feet. Unencumbered by the suitcase, she broke into a jog and watched the numbers count down. Finally, she reached 16532. It was not a house but merely a sign at the end of a dark lane. Beyond that, a wooded hill rose sharply. Between the road and the hill, piles of rubble dotted a weed-choked meadow. Remnants of a demolished house.
Tess stared at the rubble. Her eyes burned, and her legs quivered with sudden exhaustion. She imagined her knees giving way, her dropping to them, falling forward and sobbing. Just sobbing. She imagined it, and then she locked her knees, balled her fists and strode up the dirt lane to the rubble-strewn lawn.
Tess picked her way through the grass and brambles and found…a couch. Half of one, at least. Sawed in two, the stuffing gray and stringy. Beside it was something plastic, too dirt-streaked to make out without closer examination, which she did not care to give it. After another few steps, she reached the rubble. It was clearly a pile from a construction site but only a few wheelbarrows’ worth. The area was otherwise flat and whole. No sign of a foundation. Not a torn-down house, then, but simply a spot used as a dump by someone too lazy to drive to a real one.
Tess looked over her shoulder at the lane and saw that the drive didn’t really end at the forest. A wrought iron gate emerged from the shadowy trees.
She walked to the gate. Beyond it, the lane continued up the hill, and in the distance, atop that hill…
Tess gripped the ironwork to rise up onto her tiptoes for a better look. As soon as her fingers touched the black metal, she gasped and jumped back. It was ice cold. She shivered and rubbed her hands on her thighs. When she touched the gate again, it just felt cool, not surprising given the shade and the plummeting temperature. She peered into the shadows, her gaze traveling up the hill to see…
A house. The top of one, at least. The roof of a massive stone house with spires and columns. The stonework looked yellow—a sickly, glowing yellow. Tess stepped back quickly, rubbing her hands as if the gate had turned cold again. Ice slid down her spine, making her shake, goose bumps speckling her arms.
Run.
That’s what her gut said. It saw the house and it said, Run. Not a scream. Not a shout. Only a whisper, as if it dared not speak louder.
Quiet. Always be quiet. He’ll hear us if we aren’t quiet.
Tess rubbed hard at the goose bumps. The chill threatened to turn to panic, and she felt walls closing in, heard the patter of dirt against wood, felt her breath come short, and then she was gasping for breath, the air thin, oxygen evaporating, dirt raining down—
“Stop!”
She said the word aloud. It echoed in the emptiness. She shook herself and grasped the metal gate again, clasping it hard, focusing on the solidity of it, grounding herself. She looked up the hill again and saw just a house. Huge and forbidding, but that’s all. The rest was her imagination tearing off down dark alleys, still spooked and unsettled by her encounter with the man.
The gate was chained shut, but it wasn’t attached to a fence. Not meant to block the entire property then—just to keep vehicles from going up the lane. She walked around it and started the hike up the hill.