by Amber Garza
If only she had.
If only she’d listened to her gut. Followed her instincts.
She was positive this was the house. There was no doubt in her mind anymore.
Lauren standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her make French toast.
Something is off about her.
Whitney shuddered, stepped forward. The street was serene, dimly lit by streetlamps. Exhaling, she made her way to the front door. There was a tiny sliver of beveled glass, a pretty accent for the oak door. She squinted, trying to peer through. But all she saw was a kaleidoscope of colors. As she stepped back, spots filled her vision. Little floaters that made her momentarily disoriented.
She blinked. In the distance a car engine rumbled.
She scurried away from the door and lowered to the ground behind a cluster of bushes under the front windows. A twig scratched her hand on the way down, but it was a superficial scrape. Hadn’t even drawn blood. When her butt hit the dirt, a rank smell filled her nostrils. She hoped she hadn’t sat in dog crap or something.
Tires buzzed along the asphalt. She stayed hidden until it was silent again.
As she stood up, she brushed the dirt off her pants. The front windows were shuttered, and the slats were too close together to make out anything. She moved to the side of the house. It was the same in those windows.
Dammit.
After looking around, she carefully unlocked the back gate. It creaked loudly. A dog barked. Wincing, she froze, expecting a dog to leap out at her. Instinctively squeezing her eyes shut, her entire body tensed. But nothing attacked her. Opening her eyes, she scoured the backyard.
No dog.
The barking was coming from the yard next door. Still, it was loud, and she worried it would alert someone to her being there. She stepped into the yard, closing the gate securely behind her. Then she stood still until the dog finally shut up. The yard was relatively small, only a tiny patch of grass, and a patio area with an awning. Rosebushes lined the back fence too. They really had a thing for roses, huh? She trekked across the perfectly manicured and freshly watered grass. The elderly couple must’ve had their sprinklers on a timer. The soles of her shoes were soaked right through. She could feel the dampness seeping into her socks. Her teeth chattered as she took in their outdoor table, a charcoal grill near the back door.
When she and Dan were married, they had a little yard like this. She remembered sitting out on the patio on summer evenings, sipping chardonnay while he grilled. Steak, usually. He preferred red meat. Whitney hardly ate it anymore.
Whitney had never been able to afford a yard on her own. Her apartment didn’t even have one of those miniscule patio areas some of the neighbors had. She didn’t think it was worth the extra money.
She turned, her gaze sweeping along the back fence. That’s when she spotted the small shed in the right corner. It was the same color brown as the fence; that’s why initially she hadn’t seen it in the dark. It was windowless and small. Like really small. It was barely large enough to fit a person inside.
But it was big enough to fit a person, and that knowledge propelled Whitney forward. Adrenaline spiking, she yanked open the shed door. It swung open easily, almost like it hadn’t been latched shut to begin with. She choked on the smell of dust and gasoline.
“Amelia?” she whispered as loudly as she dared.
From next door, she caught a tinkly sound, like a dog’s tag being rattled as the dog ran around. She prayed that it wouldn’t start barking again.
It was dark, only a sliver of light from the back porch shining inside. But she knew the sun would be coming up soon. Pausing, she wondered if this was a mistake. Didn’t old people get up early? Reaching out, her fingers swiped over a lawnmower, a rake and a shovel. In the corner, she spotted a three-foot ladder folded up and propped against the wall. She bent down, finding a pair of gardening gloves, a few small shovels and a bag of fertilizer.
Abandoning the shed, she made her way over to the back patio. There was a sliding glass door leading into the house. The blinds weren’t quite closed all the way, so she was able to peek inside. All the lights were off, and at first, she mostly saw her own reflection, floating in the glass, a garish head with no body. But when she moved closer, her nose brushing the icy surface, she was able to make out the shape of the couch, a couple of end tables, a lamp. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Time was running out. They could be waking up anytime now, and she was no closer to finding Amelia than when she’d left her apartment. She had to get inside. But how?
She’d had a slider exactly like this one in the house that she’d shared with Dan when they were first married. Back then, she was constantly locking herself out. She’d learned early on that the slider was her best option for getting in. That’s why Dan had eventually wedged a pole in the slider. He figured if it was easy for Whitney to break in, it would be easy for anyone else.
Whitney noticed with glee that they didn’t have anything wedged to keep the slider closed. And their lock was similar to the one she and Dan had had. She knew she’d be able to get the door open. The trick was going to be keeping quiet. When she’d been breaking into her own house, she hadn’t had to worry about that part.
Taking a deep breath, she gripped the handle and tugged upward. When she felt the lock come loose, she shoved the slider to the left. It caught again, re-latching. She waited a few seconds, staring through the glass. No lights came on. No movement detected.
She tried again.
This time it worked, and she glided the slider open. It squeaked a little. She stood still, held her breath, waiting. Silently praying she hadn’t woken anyone.
When the sound of snoring reached Whitney’s ears, she heaved a sigh of relief. She took light steps into the family room, keeping her eyes trained on the path in front of her, careful not to bump into something or kick something over. After getting this far, she couldn’t afford to screw anything up.
An overpowering floral scent clung to everything in the room. It caused a tickle to form in her throat. She clamped her mouth closed, forced her breath through her nose. The last thing she needed was to start coughing.
Since the blinds weren’t closed all the way, light from the back porch streamed in. Whitney was grateful for that as she made her way toward the hallway. It got darker when she rounded the corner, but her eyes had adjusted enough that she could still see a little bit. She studied the row of framed pictures on the wall as she passed them. Wedding, baby, family photos. No one that looked like Lauren.
It seemed unfathomable that they had anything to do with Amelia being missing. But the girls had definitely entered the house. Amelia had been here. Deep in her gut, Whitney knew this house held the answers. And she wasn’t leaving until she had them.
There was a bedroom to her left. The door was open, so she slipped inside.
A guest room. Empty. Clean. Bed made.
Across from it was a bathroom. Also, empty and clean. Smelled slightly of bleach and Windex. Little rose-shaped soaps sat out on the counter, still in their wrappers, reminding her of her childhood. Her mom had kept similar ones in her bathroom. Shaking off the nostalgia clinging to her, she returned to the hallway.
The next bedroom must’ve belonged to the elderly couple. Snores slipped through the door that was slightly ajar. Pressing her palm against it, Whitney pushed it open enough to fit her body through. In the dim moonlight, she scanned the walls. Her heart stopped at a figure standing across from her. She sucked in a breath before realizing it was her own reflection in a full-length mirror. The couple slept soundly in their bed, covers wrapped around their bodies. The woman was curled up in a fetal position facing the wall, while the man slept on his back, his head turned upward.
Whitney made her way to the woman’s side. On the nightstand was a wad of crumpled up tissues, a pair of reading glasses, a tattered mystery novel open
to the last place she’d read.
There was an ornate chair in the corner, a dress strewn over the top. A dresser was pushed up against the wall.
Again, nothing out of the ordinary.
She headed into the adjoining bathroom. Scanned the vanity, peeked into the tub. The man let out a loud snore and Whitney flinched. Carefully, she backed out of the room, keeping her gaze trained on the couple as they slept in their bed.
At the end of the hallway was an office. An office turned junk room, by the looks of it. A desk carrying an old desktop computer sat against the far wall, directly under a window. The modem had been left on, and it emitted a bright red light that shone through the room. On the other wall was a sewing machine. In the corner was a file cabinet and in the center of the room sat an ironing board. She peeked into the closet, but it only held some boxes and fabric, sewing supplies, a stack of printer paper.
Whitney jerked at the sound of a mattress creaking, shifting, feet shuffling on the ground. A clearing of the throat, a loud cough. She slipped inside the closet, but she was too claustrophobic to close the door all the way.
The sound of a toilet flushing came from the couple’s bedroom. More coughing. More throat clearing. Footsteps in the hallway.
Shit.
Whitney’s heartbeat drew attention to itself. She swallowed hard. Gulped in a tight breath.
The footsteps retreated. She heard a cabinet door opening and closing. Water turning on. The clink of a cup on the counter and then footsteps nearing her again.
She slunk back, biting her lip.
The relief she felt was palpable when the footsteps stopped, and she heard the creak of the mattress again.
Whitney wanted to get the hell out of there, but knew she had to be patient. Sitting in the closet, she focused on even breathing, as her heart beat out of control. Her skin broke out in a sweat that made her shudder. Her elbow jabbed the corner of the box next to her. Since the door was open, a sliver of red light poured in, revealing the words written on top in black marker.
FOSTER KIDS
She looked up, tuning in. The snoring had returned. Whitney carefully lifted the lid from the box. It was filled with pictures, coloring pages, some old school papers that reminded her of ones she’d saved of Amelia’s. She picked up a few of the pictures, drew them close to her face to try to make out what she could. They all seemed to be of children.
Had they been foster parents?
The more she discovered in this house, the less guilty they appeared. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up yet.
After crawling out of the closet, she stood up. Her knees cracked with the effort. Internally, she cursed her aging joints.
Hurrying out of the office, she made it back out into the family room. She glanced into the kitchen, at the glass on the counter, half-filled with water. Beyond it was a door which probably led to the garage. It was the only place she hadn’t looked.
When she stepped inside the garage, she was blinded. It was pitch-black inside. Feeling along the wall, her finger found a light switch. It had two switches, and her heart stopped. One of them probably opened the garage door. She couldn’t afford to click the wrong one.
Reaching into her pocket, she found her phone, yanked it out. Her fingers damp with nerves, she couldn’t grip it well, and it slipped from her hand, crashing to the cement floor below. The loud sound reverberated through the air. Drawing in a startled breath, she froze, every muscle in her body tightening. She stayed that way for at least a minute, afraid to move.
Once she was satisfied no one was coming, she slowly lowered herself down to the ground and felt around on the floor. The pads of her fingers slid along the cold cement. When they lighted on something square, she exhaled. Closing her fingers around it, she snatched it up, feeling the screen for cracks. Thankfully because of her protective case, there weren’t any. Sliding her fingers over the screen, she turned on the flashlight. It gave her the barest of light. Still, it was enough to see a short distance in front of her. Whitney walked around the garage, letting it light her path.
Not only did these people not have Amelia, they didn’t lead very interesting lives either. Their garage was clean and organized. On the shelf on the far wall was toilet paper, paper towels, some gardening tools, clear boxes of Christmas decorations. Two bikes were propped up in the corner. A car sat idly in the center. Running a hand over her hair, Whitney grunted in frustration.
Where was her daughter?
She’d really believed she would find answers here. If not here, where?
Defeated, she slumped back into the house, turning the flashlight off. That overwhelming floral scent returned. She pressed her lips together, as she scanned the room. Her heart stopped. On the other side of the family room was a little hallway, an extra door. She’d missed that before. It could be nothing more than a closet, but she moved toward it swiftly anyway.
Whitney felt eyes on her. Chills skittered up her spine, prickling across her shoulder blades. Turning, her gaze swept the room. She half expected to see the elderly couple standing behind her. But no one was there.
When she swung back around, she saw vacant, glossy eyes, watching her every move.
Dolls. Dozens of them, filling a glass hutch that sat against the wall. Whitney couldn’t stop staring at them as she passed. She’d always hated dolls. Even as a little girl, she’d pluck their creepy, hollow eyes out so they couldn’t stare at her. These ones had all their eyes intact, and they seemed to follow her as she walked across the room.
Grateful to be out of seeing range from the hutch of dolls, she reached the second hallway. There were two rooms stemming from it. One was to her right. A bathroom. The door was open, and she peeked inside. It was pitch-dark, so she got out her phone again, and holding it tightly against her palm, she turned on the flashlight. It sprayed the yellow light throughout the tiny room. It was a half bath, and it was empty. The door directly in front of her was closed. After peeking over her shoulder, she carefully turned the knob and stepped inside.
Another guest room.
It was empty as well, but there was something about it that made her skin prickle, her heart rate pick up speed. There was a smell, different from the rest of the house. She could feel it. An energy that the other guest room didn’t have. It had been occupied recently.
Breath fluttering in her chest, she stepped inside. It was just as dark in here as in the bathroom, so she closed the door behind her and turned the flashlight back on. It was a risk, but she had to take it. If there were answers to be found here, she was determined to find them.
No doubt the police had been here. Looked around. If they hadn’t found anything, then this was her only shot. Her only hope.
On high alert for any noises outside of this room, she walked forward. Light bounced around, sweeping up the walls and across the carpet. The bed was neatly made, the room cleaned and vacuumed just like the other rooms.
She was about to hang her head in frustration, when she spotted something small, brown, familiar, sitting on top of the dresser. Snatching it up, she turned it over in her palm. A little hair thing that resembled an old telephone cord. Coiled and round. The same kind Amelia wore in her hair, and around her wrists. She could’ve sworn she’d seen one or two lining Lauren’s wrists, as well.
Lots of people used these kinds of hair bands. Whitney saw them everywhere. But Whitney was positive it didn’t belong to the old lady. Her hair was short, curly. Not long enough to fit into a hair band. She felt like it was a clue. That it meant something.
A sound startled her, and she dropped the hair tie.
Silence.
It was probably just the house settling.
But it was getting later, and she was certain the couple would be waking up soon. She peered down at the hair tie, feeling aggravated. So much for a smoking gun. A hair tie proved nothing. Just that someone had a
t one point been in this house who had long hair.
Abandoning the hair tie, she turned off the flashlight. Her hope disappeared as swiftly as the light did. When she’d first broken in, she was certain she’d find answers here. She no longer had any doubt this was the house that Amelia walked into.
But it still wasn’t making any sense.
The couple seemed like good people. There was nothing in the house that seemed suspicious at all. I mean, they took in foster kids for God’s sake.
She froze, thinking.
Or did they?
Recently, she’d read a news article about the police tying a man to a string of kidnappings because of pictures and mementos found in his house. Maybe the box was something more sinister than they wanted people to believe. Perhaps the label didn’t reveal the truth.
Tearing out of the room, Whitney stumbled down the hallway, hurrying toward the office. As she passed the couple’s bedroom, she was relieved to hear the snoring. She prayed they weren’t early risers.
She scooted the box along the ground, bringing it toward the center of the room, where she could see more clearly. After grabbing a handful of the pictures, she leafed through them. A couple of baby pictures. A few school photos. God, she really hoped these had been their foster kids. She tossed the pictures back in, realizing that the answers were most likely in the paperwork. Perhaps she’d find a newspaper article. Didn’t criminals like to read up on cases about themselves? If she could prove they were criminals, the police would surely take her seriously. No longer consider Amelia a runaway.
As the pictures fluttered down into the box, one of them caught her attention. Familiarity gripped her. Something about the woman in the photo. Snatching it up, she brought it closer to her face. Got a better look. It was grainy, a little blurred. Three people sitting in a hospital bed—a woman, a baby and a child, probably around six or so.
Whitney knew immediately who they were. Her own former best friend with her two daughters. She remembered the last time they’d bumped into one another, years after their estrangement.