Ellie squinted at the home. “Do normal people do this? Just casually show up at some stranger’s house after FBI-level cyberstalking them to ask if they had journaled their trauma in their last home?”
“Definitely not, but we’re not exactly normal.”
Ellie chuckled and climbed out of the truck. Gravel crunched under our feet as we walked up. She bumped my shoulder like this was some kind of field trip and not a potential felony in progress.
“If someone comes out with a shotgun, you’re taking the hit,” she said.
“As your emotionally codependent partner in crime, I accept this.”
The porch steps creaked as we walked up. Ellie looked at me with her brows raised, trying very hard not to laugh.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.
“Deeply.”
She gestured grandly toward the door. “After you, brave sir.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t know. You look less serial killer-y.”
“That’s a lie.”
She rolled her eyes but knocked anyway, lightly at first. Then again, louder.
Nothing.
I leaned in, listening. “Either she’s not home, or this place is abandoned.”
She stepped back, scanning the windows like she had X-ray vision.
“Hey,” I said gently, nudging her hand with mine. “If no one’s here, we’ll come back.”
“I just… I thought maybe this would be it.”
“It still could be,” I said. “Just not tonight.”
She nodded, but the spark was dimmer.
“C’mon. Let’s get you back to the safety of my couch.”
Then—thump.
We froze.
“Did you hear that?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I heard something.”
“A ghost?”
“A cat with anger issues?”
“A killer clown organizing their bookshelf?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but she was already turning the doorknob. Unlocked. It creaked open.
I stared at her. “Ellie.”
