Return to Red Creek Nathan Hystad (e books free to read .txt) 📖

album and a journal. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.” The house was beginning to get the best of her. It felt tainted; empty, yet occupied.

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Brent picked up the bat she’d leaned against the closet door, and they left the ladder behind, along with the attic open. Taylor didn’t think anyone would really care.

They exited through the back door, and Taylor pulled it closed. From the concrete step, she could see the fields out behind the property, trees lining the forest beyond the farmer’s land. She knew all about the path that her dad had taken on the day of his abduction, and Dad’s friend Jason Benning’s son had been taken there too.

“What was that all about? Do you think this has anything to do with the Smiths?” Brent asked as they walked over to the car.

Taylor stopped on the sidewalk before crossing the street. From here, the break in the houses was visible, the pathway looming at the end of the block.

“Taylor, let’s go. It’s starting to rain.” Brent had the car door open, the box from the attic already slid into the backseat.

She was about to join him when she looked over at the house to the right of the one they’d just broken into. A woman was watching her through living room blinds. “Brent, I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t wait around for his protests. Taylor jogged up to the neighbor’s house and knocked on the door. Brent arrived behind her, and she turned towards him, giving him an apologetic “I’m sorry for dragging you into this” look. He shrugged as the door opened, revealing a spindly old woman.

“What?” she asked from behind a closed screen door.

“I’m Taylor Alenn. My dad grew up next door. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.” Taylor used her sweetest voice, the one she only pulled out when she needed a big favor from her parents or friends. Brent grinned beside her.

The woman glared from one of them to the other and moved her stick-thin arm for the lock on the screen door. “Come on in. But take your shoes off.”

The house smelled like cat litter and English breakfast tea. Not the ideal mixture. “Have you lived here long?” Taylor asked, glancing around at the 1970s furniture and dozens of gilded picture frames lining the walls.

“You could say that. Now shut the door before someone sees us.”

Taylor didn’t understand the paranoia, but Brent closed the door quickly, and they stepped inside, taking their shoes off.

“How long has the house next door been for sale?” Taylor walked into the living room, sitting on the couch when the old lady pointed to it.

“Two years.”

“Any idea why?” Brent asked.

The old lady stared at him, standing rigid while the two younger guests sat on the old couch. “Why is it empty? That’s obvious. Because it’s haunted.”

Taylor’s arm hair stood on end, and she felt Brent tense up beside her.

Before they could comment, the lady spoke up again. “My name’s Edith, by the way. Anyone want some tea?”

 

 

Six

“Yes, we have one Abigail. Abigail Prescott. We’ll page her now, Detective,” the woman said with a cheerful hint to her voice.

Tom wasn’t sure what she had to be happy about. She was talking to a detective about a missing girl, with suspected foul play, and he suspected she was dreaming of getting home for another boring Friday night. By the looks of her, she had a couple of screaming rugrats to watch out for.

“Thank you.” He gave her his kindest smile and sat in the school office, waiting for Abigail to be summoned. The principal came over to him and directed him to the school counselor’s office. The man told Tom how the counselor was using the gymnasium as a base camp this week, with the entire school population being so worried about their own Brittany Tremblay. Tom nodded and accepted the office space with grace.

The counselor had eclectic tastes. Oversized motivational posters in plastic frames circled the space, but Tom did his best to avoid reading them. His head was aching now, and only after a day in Red Creek. He felt the pressure of the case building up. The damned sheriff still hadn’t called him, and Tom had a feeling the guy was off on his own goose chase, trying to find the girl by himself.

Under normal circumstances, Tom would be okay with that if the guy had the leads, but he wanted to be in the loop. Every one of these small towns was the same. The local force always got up in arms when a smarter, younger man came marching in wearing a suit. It was always the suit that did it. Tom had no doubt that if he’d arrived in a button-down shirt and jeans, they’d be more open to shoot the breeze with him.

He didn’t care. Tom wore suits with pride. It was the only job he’d ever pictured himself doing.

There was a knock on the door, and the secretary led a somber girl into the office. “Here she is, Detective.” The door shut, and Tom motioned for the girl to have a seat in the swivel chair at the front of the desk.

Tom moved some of the scattered papers on the desktop and shoved them into a drawer. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a disorganized work space.

“Abigail?” he asked, and she nodded.

“What is this about?” the girl asked, her voice confident and firm, not afraid like one might expect.

“Do you know Brittany Tremblay?” Tom leaned away, trying to seem less imposing.

“Sure, I know her. Have you found her yet?” The question came out with no emotion. It felt odd.

The girl across from him was fourteen, a little older than the missing Brittany, but they were in the same grade. This young lady could pull off sixteen, a far stretch from the lanky pictures of Brittany. They didn’t seem like they’d