Harvestland

EIGHTEEN

Charlee walked as if pulled by a supernatural force, trance-like, driven. She kept one hand concealed in her pocket, gripping the knife handle. Another pocket stored her flashlight.

She went to Noah's house first.

Maybe the killer was there, waiting to strike in the middle of the night, murder Noah in his bed just as he had Alison.

She checked the exterior. Clear.

No lights were on in the house. His parents must have never checked his bedroom and were sleeping soundly. She slipped through the back patio doors, always unlocked, and crept upstairs, not a squeak.

She kept the flashlight off. She knew all the turns and the corners and soon her eyes were accustomed to the darkness. She checked the master bedroom—lumps in the bed, the sound of steady breathing.

She checked the bathroom, hallway closet, guest bedroom—all clear.

Noah's bedroom—the door closed.

Knife out. Gripped tight.

She opened the door slowly, fully. Walked inside. Took a look back and closed the door again. She went for the light switch, thought better, made use of the flashlight, did a sweep of the room.

The bed was made, undisturbed, folds neat and crisp, note resting atop a pillow. The closet—

Slow. She inched over, knife raised in one hand, flashlight in the other. She breathed steady, swung open the door.

Clothes.

Button-ups, cardigans, khakis and slacks, ties.

She pushed the hangers aside, checked behind the clothes—clear.

Exhale.

Creaks, footsteps, outside in the hall—

She moved slowly, opened the door just a crack—

A dim light on in the master bedroom. The sound of a flushing toilet.

Exhale part two.

She waited until all lights were off until she made the trek back downstairs. She did an obligatory search of the first floor and basement before sneaking out silently through the patio doors.

Back into the night. Flashlight pocketed. Knife in the other pocket with her hand firm on the handle.

She made her way through the neighborhoods and descended into the Valley. She wasn't sure how much time had passed since she had left the mall before her flashlight beam fell upon the street sign for Sleepy Hollow Drive. Maybe an hour, hour and a half.

She turned the corner onto the winding road, flush with overgrown oaks that towered like ghosts under the starry sky, full canopies like outstretched arms, searching, grasping—

She stopped in front of Alison's house. Closed her eyes against memories that seemed so long ago.

She nodded and pressed on. A sudden dread mounting, she unsheathed the knife from her pocket and kept it out.

The beam of her flashlight helped to guide her down the abandoned section of the street and deep into the woods, to the run-down ranch home that sat submerged in total darkness and silence. Even the night sounds seemed hushed around it. The house was a force itself, a presence all on its own.

That silence scared Charlee even more than the dark.

And suddenly the fear overtook all drive and determination.