Chapter Forty-five

IT WAS STARK QUIET inside; nothing moved. No hum of electronics or ticking of clocks, no voices or the indication of a presence of any kind.

We moved into the living room and Dean scanned the space with his flashlight. Nothing was knocked over or disturbed. No sign of a struggle, which was good, but where were the Mitchells?

Dean and I swept the rest of the lower level, coming up with nothing.

“What gives?” I asked.

Dean shrugged and said, “Come on. Let’s check upstairs.”

This time he took the lead, moving one stair at a time. Something flicked on inside my head. It was at a low hush at first, but then I could feel them rising inside.

No, not now.

The mumbling chatter filled my head, blocking out all other sounds, if there had been any in the house to observe.

I rattled my head, hitting it with the palm of my hand. The voices subsided.

Dean made it the top of the staircase and waited for me.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

I didn’t answer—just shook my head and tried to refocus. Leaning my arm against the wall, I took in deep breaths and centered myself from inside. Like hands digging into sand, my mind walls surrounded the voices and captured them, tossing them out like a bag of garbage.

Flicking my eyes open, I was amazed at how quickly I’d vanquished them. I felt steady again.

“I’m good. Let’s keep moving.” With my mind intact again, my fears started to calm as I reached the top of the staircase next to Dean.

Before us was a long hallway and nothing but darkness. Dean tipped up his flashlight and illuminated our path. In the beam something flashed back at us. It was the small glimmer of a revolver that sat in the middle of the hallway.

A gun. How did it get here?

I pointed at it silently. Dean reached down and picked it up.

“It’s Dad’s.” He checked the chamber. “Three rounds missing.” He looked back at me.

“Missing, or do you mean fired?” I posed.

Dean blanketed the hallway with light to search for bullet holes. Then we saw it at the other end of the hall.

A dark figure sat slumped over, half of his body leaning against the wall.

“Dad!” Dean shouted, but I knew it wasn’t Rick.

“No, Dean, wait.” I reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, holding him back. “That’s not your dad.” I swallowed. “It’s mine.”