Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
She remembered this door, the way the turquoise color had seemed like such a happy omen. What would be a beautiful new start. The way the color turquoise always made her stomach sour now.
“No way,” she whispered, a guttural quality to her voice.
“What is it?” Kat asked, obviously sensing her shock as, weapons drawn, they went inside the house.
She blinked at the room they’d entered, feeling as though she’d been shot back in time, a trip that left her shaky and reeling. It was. It was the house. “I rented this house eleven years ago,” she said.
Kat stilled, turning toward her. “Hold up. What?”
“I told you Gavin and I dated, but it was more than that. We’d planned to be married . . . this is the house we rented. We never lived here, but . . .”
Before Kat could answer, music started playing from the room beyond. Kat’s and Sienna’s eyes met, Kat’s widening before they crept forward. Sienna knew the room they were moving toward was a shoebox kitchen with yellow cabinets and brick-printed linoleum. She knew because it had almost been hers.
“How charming!” Mirabelle had said when she’d stepped inside. Even then, Sienna had known that was an extremely generous description, but the rose-colored glasses she’d worn had meant she’d agreed anyway. It would be beautiful. Because it would be theirs.
Kat gestured to Sienna to take one side of the doorway, and she took the other, calling, “Reno police! Show yourself!”
Not a creak could be heard, even though the music played softly, a children’s sing-along version of “Camptown Races,” a jubilant harmonica accompanying the vocals.
Camptown racetrack five miles long. Oh! Doo-dah day!
Oh no.
Kat called several more times, and they listened carefully, hearing nothing. Sienna had managed to clear her mind of the shock of where they’d been . . . lured, was that the right word? It was certainly how it felt. She couldn’t think about what it meant, though. Not now.
With a gesture and nod, they rounded the corner, each sweeping the room so all corners were covered.
“Oh crap,” Kat said, letting out a breath. There was a window, but it’d been boarded over from the outside, thin shafts of light streaming through. But there was plenty of light coming in from the front of the house and no corners to hide in. They both lowered their weapons. The man in the center of the room wasn’t going to harm them. He was all but mummified, threadbare clothes hanging off his bones. Next to him was an old crate, and on top of that sat what looked like a battery-operated radio. There was actually an extra battery next to it, as though the person who’d set this up had brought a spare in case they hadn’t figured out enough to follow the clues here before the ones inside the radio went dead. Sienna leaned slightly, confirming her guess, seeing that there was no cord just as the song came to a stop and, seconds later, began again.
“It’s on a loop,” she said, letting out a breath.
Kat stepped forward before slowly pulling something from beneath the radio. Yet another of Danny Boy’s installments, when they’d only just finished one.
Sienna stared at the decomposed corpse, bending and tilting her head. “Kat, look,” she said, pointing to the rotted fabric hanging from the arm. It was difficult to tell what color the material had once been, but one thing was clear: there was a round leather patch at the elbow.
Kat bent, looking to where Sienna indicated. “Mr. Patches?”
“It could be,” Sienna murmured, straightening.
“Let’s get out of here and call the coroner,” Kat said.
Sienna nodded. And read Danny Boy’s latest note. Her muscles felt sore and tight, and she didn’t hurry as they made their way through the house and back to the car. The man inside wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Another chapter of my life had thankfully ended. Mr. Patches went missing. No one knew where he’d gone when he’d left school that cold winter day. Mother drove his car into our detached garage and covered it with a tarp, brushing her hands and humming as we walked away. The tune was familiar and haunting. Doo-dah! Doo-dah! Oh! Doo-dah day! Despite Mother’s sweet, melodic voice, I shivered. “How about ice cream for dinner tonight, Danny Boy?” she asked. “I’d say we deserve it, don’t you? Mint chip?”
Mrs. Patches went on the news, her eyes red, voice quavering, as she spoke into the microphone about what a kind and gentle man her husband was, a lover of learning, pillar of the community, and all that stuff people sometimes say before they learn their loved one is—or was in Mr. Patches’s case—actually a demon in disguise. There was a solemn-eyed little girl standing next to her mother at the podium, and I wondered if he’d violated her, too, or if he preferred boys and had a special affinity for the fatherless ones like me who had little protection. But when the police stumbled upon a large stash of child pornography on his home computer, the investigation stalled. Whether that was due to a lack of leads or because the police quietly decided the world was better off if he stayed missing, I didn’t know. All I cared about was that my “tutoring” sessions had ended. On a side note, I still feel queasy when I hear the mention of the periodic table of elements, as that’s the page the science book Mr. Patches had brought to my home was open to the first time he violated me. Thankfully, conversations that might bring to mind the table don’t come up that often, and maybe you’d be surprised they do at all. But they do. Oh, I should know. They do.