Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“Where did they live if you don’t mind me asking? Where was their home?”
“End of Maple. It’s the last house on the dead end. Abandoned, and behind it”—she shivers— “it’s just woods. Creepy location, if you ask me. Now, it’s just the family cemetery.”
A chill runs up my spine, but my resolve is set. I’m going there.
I fire up the GPS on my phone as I walk back to my car. I have this niggling feeling in my brain that I just cracked open a huge clue about Cynthia. But I still don’t know how she’s associated with Cain. Why would she have been snooping and following the head of an architecture firm?
I head out to that area where Tammy said the Abbotts lived.
When I pull up, there is an old home. By the looks of the overgrown weeds and trees, no one has been here for years.
No one kept up this place.
No one came back to love it.
The realization makes me feel hollow.
The property was probably once beautiful. A place for a family to call home.
I don’t go into the house. Instead, I peek in through a window. It looks as if it’s been frozen in time. The grime and dust on the window obstruct my view, but I see enough to know that no one has been here since the boys died. A part of me wants to go inside, but technically, that’s breaking and entering, and even though no one lives here, something tells me the sheriff would be more than happy to lock me up.
Instead, I continue to look around the outside, making my way closer to where Tammy said I could find the cemetery.
With each step I take, I can’t shake off the foreboding feeling weaving its way through my body. That feeling when you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, and eyes are watching you? That’s how I feel now in this overgrown grass.
Each crunch through the landscape magnifies my fear. But I know it’s just the anxiety. Misplaced fear having me question everything.
No one is here.
It's probably just nerves since, deep down, I know I shouldn’t be here. This is an open investigation. That, coupled with the fact that I’ve lied to Cain, is the guilt that’s making me nervous.
I take a few more steps, and then I see the old, broken arch of the cemetery.
I start to look around for where to walk, but this is worse than the path to get here.
Clearly, no one has touched these grounds in years, maybe even decades. Overgrown trees block out so much of the sunlight it has become dark and dank.
Using the flashlight on my phone, I peer down to read the names on the only tombstones visible. Both lying flat on the ground, an afterthought to the people laid to rest.
Like no one loved them or cared where they were buried. Covered with ivy, I reach and pull back the vines.
HERE LIES NORTH ABBOTT
1987-2005
The boy Cynthia dated.
Beside it is another grave, this one is for Stone Abbott.
Why did she come back here after being gone for so many years?
With how dark it is getting here under the canopy, I know I should be heading home soon, but I will never be able to sleep if I don’t uncover more details about this relationship between Cynthia and these Abbott boys.
Jumping back into my car, I head toward town. I’m not sure who to ask after striking out at the police department and the two other shops. What other institutions would have been around for a while that would know these kids from years ago?
As I drive into the main center of town, I squint my eyes and look at the stone building across the street and down a block. It looks old, like it’s been here since probably the early 1900s.
If anyone knows the history of this town and its people, I bet I would find them in there.
The library probably has old archives of newspapers or local school information I can pick through.
If there was a fire in this town, it would have made the local papers. Maybe I can find the original story and track down the journalist who wrote it.
Once I'm in front of the building, I pull over and park, and then I grab my bag, notebook, and computer and head to the door.
The sound of the creak as the door opens is loud to my ears, and when I step inside, a woman, who looks to be in her seventies, greets me.
This could bode well for me. She could have been living and working here when everything happened.
“Hello, I’m Margret. I’m the librarian. Can I help you with, Miss?”
“Hi, Margret, I’m Layla. I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“Depends on what it is.” She removes the glasses on her face and scrubs at her eyes.