Outside (21 page)

I turn onto Alaina’s street and pull into her driveway. Holly’s car is sitting there with the driver’s side door still open and a brown puddle on the ground outside it. I cringe, glad I can’t actually smell it as I get out of the car.

As I climb the front steps, I notice the front door is open. Not wide, but just enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Maybe in her rush, Beth forgot to close it. But then why would Alaina leave it open?

I reach for my phone as I step onto the porch. “Alaina?” I call into the house. I wait, but don’t hear anything. Scowling, I push the door open a bit more and call her name again.

None of the lights are on. She might be upstairs and every part of me wants to rush inside and look for her. But I don’t, because if she is in there she’d probably freak out if I came barging in like a psycho. And then there’s that tiny, nagging voice telling me that something’s not right and that if I went in, I might find something I didn’t like. Instead, I send her a text:
I’m here. Why is your door open?

Seconds later, I hear her phone chime from somewhere inside the house.

“Alaina?” I call again.

Still no answer. So, I call her.

Her phone rings, and rings, and rings before going to voicemail.

“You’re starting to freak me out,” I call, hanging up without leaving a message. I push the door all the way open. What if she’s sick too? Maybe she can’t answer because she’s passed out somewhere in a puddle of puke.

Fuck it. I’m going inside.

Pushing the door all the way open, I step into the darkened hallway, calling her name. The only thing I hear is the creak of the floorboards under my feet.

I send a gibberish text to her phone so I can track it down. The tone comes from somewhere near the kitchen.

Slowly, quietly, I move through the house, listening for any sign of life.

What if she’s dead, though?

I shake my head to get rid of the thought. She’s not dead.

The closer I get to the kitchen, the harder my heart pounds. If someone hurt her, I swear to God…

I’m nearly to the kitchen door when her phone starts ringing, startling me so bad I nearly drop my own phone. The ringtone leads me right to it, though. It’s on the kitchen floor, under the overturned table along with shattered dishes, a puddle of water, and spattered chocolate syrup.

Beth’s name is on the phone screen and I hesitate before picking it up. Something sticks to my fingers as I answer the call.

“Beth? It’s Adam. Alaina’s…” I put the phone in my other hand and examine the dark reddish brown stuff smeared across my fingers. It looks like chocolate syrup, but it doesn’t smell right and when it dawns on me what it is, I nearly throw up right there.

It’s blood.

I back away from the mess, bumping into the doorframe. My stomach lurches and I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on taking deep breaths.

“Adam, where’s Alaina? Is she okay? I’ve been trying to call her for the past twenty minutes.”

My whole body goes numb as I reopen my eyes and look down at the mess in the kitchen. All the dark spots on the floor that I thought were chocolate are actually drops of blood.

“She’s not here,” I say, panic starting to rise up in my chest. “She’s gone! Someone… The door was open! And I came to look for her! There’s blood!”
Everywhere
I want to add, but I don’t. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. There’s no way this is real. This has to be a joke. A sick fucking prank.

“Call the police,” Beth says. “Holly’s not doing well and I…” Her voice breaks. “I can’t leave just yet. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Right. The police. “I’ll call you back.”

I dial 911 from my own phone, and then I call my dad.

Beth arrives a few hours later, while the cops are still grilling me like
I
did something wrong. Luckily my dad has been here for most of it, which has kept them from arresting me.

When Beth comes in, she’s already crying. I don’t know her well, but from what I do know, crying isn’t something that she does on the regular.

“How’s Holly?” I ask, crossing the living room to put my arm around her shoulder.

She takes a shuddering breath. “She’s stable for now. The doctor’s aren’t sure what’s wrong with her. Jacki came. And Drew. They’re there now. I feel awful for leaving her, but Alaina…” She trails off as a sob racks her body.

“And you’re the homeowner?” One of the cops inches toward us.

She nods. “Yes. I’m Beth Roberts. Alaina’s aunt and legal guardian.”

The cop nods and jots something down in his notepad.

“We filed a protection order,” Beth says in a rush. “Just two days ago.”

I blink and glance at my dad. “A protection order?” Alaina never mentioned anything about a PPO. It makes sense though. How could I have been so stupid? I should have known this had to do with her mom.

Beth nods. “Her mother started writing her these strange letters that gave the distinct impression she had been following her.” She glances at me. “You never saw her, did you?”

I shake my head. “No. There was just that one time when we went to the movie and Alaina suspected we were being watched.”

“Wait a minute,” the cop says. “So this girl’s mother-”

“Leah Roberts,” Beth says. “She was stalking Alaina. That’s who you should be looking for.” She turns to me. “I’m sorry, Adam. I never should have left her here alone. I should have made her go with us to the hospital.” Her eyes well up again.

I squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

The cops ask Beth a few more questions before she asks them to come see her at the hospital so she can get back to Holly.

When Dad and I get home, Christine is waiting in the foyer practically breathing fire.

“Well?” She puts her fists on her hips. “Did you find her?”

Dad glances at me before he answers. “No.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “I suppose you’re going to go out looking for her now, then?”

“Christine-” Dad starts.

“Don’t start, Graham. I have four plates of ice-cold filet mignon and asparagus in there.” She jabs a finger at the kitchen. “You left me! Just ran out on our anniversary!”

Typical Christine. Someone goes missing and she’s bitching about filet mignon.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Dad says, raising his voice. “Adam’s girlfriend got attacked and abducted! Or maybe that doesn’t matter to you!”

She scowls. “Of course it matters!” Her eyes slide to me and back to Dad. “But I think I have a right to be upset that
you
left me.”

“He’s my son, Christine! He called me for help! I wasn’t going to let him field questions from the police on his own!”

I shake my head. I don’t have time for this. “I’m gonna go change,” I say, gesturing to my jeans that have somehow gotten blood on them.

They continue to argue, barely paying any attention as I take the stairs two at a time.

In my room, I change and text Drew to fill him in on everything, but he already knows. He’s been at the hospital with Jacki and Beth for the past hour.

What’s the plan?

I pace in front of my bed. It’s a good question. I can’t just sit here and wait around for the cops, but I have no idea where to start looking. I don’t know where Alaina’s mom lives.

Something occurs to me then. Like a bolt of lightning straight to my brain. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m typing a reply:
I’m going to look for her. I think I know where she is.

Drew’s response is almost instantaneous.
I’m coming with you.

Dad and Christine are at new levels of marital disharmony when I come out of my room. Christine smashes the vase of roses on the foyer floor as Dad calls her spoiled and selfish. Normally I’d sit on the steps and watch, praying for one of them to drop the D-word. Today, though, I’m glad they’re distracted. It makes it easier for me to slip out the back door before Dad can lecture me about getting involved in an investigation.

It’s already fully dark when I meet Drew in the hospital parking lot with Beth.

“Drew says you know where Alaina is?” Beth’s eyes are puffy and the sickly yellow glow from the parking lot lights make her look older than she is.

Shrugging, I glance at Drew. “I think so. If her mom didn’t take her back to wherever she’s currently living, it would make sense for her to take her back to Shiloh or whatever, wouldn’t it?”

Beth’s eyes widen. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Did you call the police and tell them?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“You call them,” Drew says. “We’re gonna go look.”

She nods and starts to pull her phone out of her back pocket. Her shoulders slump and she stops. “I left that detective’s card up in Holly’s room.”

“Where was Shiloh?” I ask Beth.

“Up in Summerton. Out route nineteen. I’m not sure exactly where, though.”

“It’s okay,” Drew says. “We’ll find it.”

“It’s probably still taped off. The gate is set back from the road a little ways, but all the pictures I saw showed that yellow police tape across it.” Beth inhales sharply. “Oh god! I don’t even want to think about what Leah could be doing to her right now!”

My stomach turns.

“You two be very careful! If you get caught, or hurt…” Beth sighs. “Maybe you shouldn’t go. Maybe we should leave this to the police.”

I shake my head. “We’ll be fine. And we’ll get there way before the cops even get their shit together enough to think about going to check it out.”

Drew nods in agreement.

I’m anxious to leave. The longer we stand here, the more time Alaina’s mom has to do god-knows-what to her. I twirl my keys on my finger. “We’ll call you when we get there.” I don’t wait for a response.

It takes less than an hour to get to Summerton. Thanks to the Maps app, we find route 19 pretty quick.

“Too bad we can’t just Google ‘cults in Summerton,’” Drew says, squinting at his phone screen while I drive down the deserted, unlit two-lane road.

“See if there’s a satellite view of this area. Maybe we can find it that way.” My eyes scan each of the mailboxes that we pass, half-expecting one of them to be obviously Shiloh’s.

Drew is silent, staring at the map. The mailboxes are getting farther apart, the further we get from Summerton.

“Wait! Go back!” Drew yells suddenly, and I slam on my brakes.

My tires screech against the pavement before we come to a stop.

“Back there,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “There’s a farm or something. Look.”

At a dead stop in the middle of the road, I take Drew’s phone. Sure enough, set back from the road, at the end of a dirt drive, there’s a huge plot of land dotted with white buildings. Definitely a compound.

Tossing his phone in his lap, I cut my wheel and pull a U-turn in the middle of the road before gunning it back in the other direction.

“Slow down,” Drew says, watching our progress on his phone. “It should be right…” He looks up and points at a driveway concealed by trees. “Here.”

I pull into the driveway, the dirt and rocks crunching under my tires, and drive through what can only be described as a hole in the overgrown trees and shrubs.

“This place is freaky,” Drew says as we continue slowly through the tunnel of trees.

“Just a little,” I mutter.

“Might ought to cut the lights off,” Drew says. “Otherwise they’ll see us coming.”

“Right.” I reach over and turn my headlights off. Unable to see anything at all, Drew and I ease through the tunnel of trees with nothing but the sound of branches rubbing against the car as we go.

Finally the trees give way to an open stretch of driveway that’s lit by the moon. Before long, a massive stone wall appears in front of us. At the center is a gate crisscrossed with police tape, but propped open just wide enough for a car to pass.

“We probably shouldn’t just drive in,” I say.

Drew nods beside me, leaning forward in his seat to look up at the wall.

I pull off into the grass just to the left of the gate and turn the car around, backing it up so we can make a quick get-away if we need to before killing the engine.

“Okay,” Drew says. “We’re here. Now what?”

“We go in.” I reach for my door handle.

“What if there’s a bunch of them in there? We can just go in there unarmed.”

I scowl at him even though he can’t see me. “I’m fresh out of guns.”

“You got anything in the trunk? A machete or something?” He glances out the window nervously.

“A machete? Are you serious? You think I drive around with a machete in my car?”

Frustrated, he throws his hands up. “You know what I mean!”

I sigh. “There’s a tire iron in there. And a jack handle, probably. But seriously-”

“I call the tire iron,” he says, opening his door.