Especially when I know deep down, I am one, too.
Chapter 14
Jenna
It’s so dark,I almost miss the turnoff for Calvin Bradford’s house.
I kill my headlights a hundred yards out, and coast down the icy back road. I park deep in the tree line, every single hair on my body thrumming with the need to run, or maybe just dig a hole and never come out.
But I’ve totally got this.
I sit for a few moments, watching my own breath fog the windshield, hands tight on the wheel until my knuckles threaten to split.
This isn’t the first time I’ve broken into a house, having an affinity for abandoned houses when I was younger. But this is the first time I’ve done it knowing the man who lives here is the kind of predator who’d probably sense me the second I stepped onto his property, like he’s part wolf. The risk isn’t the alarm or the cops. The risk is being caught by Bradford himself.
Which, apparently, is a risk I am willing to take.
And the thought is disturbingly thrilling.
I scan the property one more time, then slide out of the car. The air is raw, biting cold. My sneakers slip on the ice, but I keep my stride steady, arms close to my sides. The forest is thick here,but the path to the house is so well-worn, it makes me wonder how often it’s used, since it’s adjacent to the tree farm.
I hug the shadow side, mind cycling through every possible way this could go wrong. The cabin is just ahead, and the windows are all dark, save for one faint glow in the far corner—probably a nightlight in the kitchen, if I’m still remembering the layout right.
I circle wide, eyes peeled for sensors, dogs, motion cams, or whatever someone like Bradford might have. There are none visible, but I know better than to trust the obvious. I inch my way around the perimeter, searching for the best entry point. There’s a side window, just high enough that maybe he wouldn’t think about it as much. He strikes me as feeling somewhat invincible. And lucky for me, I find a crack in the siding, wedge the toe of my sneaker in, and hoist myself up with a grunt.
The window is locked, but it’s a shitty double-pane that gives when I rock it hard with my shoulder. It pops with a clunk and the tiniest shriek of old metal and the stupidly, the frame shatters. I freeze, heart beating so loud I’m convinced someone in the next county can hear it.
But nothing sounds off.
I let out a breath, and then carefully wedge my torso through. I snag my jeans on the frame, skinning my hip, and immediately bang my knee on sill. I stifle a hiss, then haul myself all the way inside, repeating my mantra in my head.
I got this. I totally got this.
I let my eyes adjust, and then scan. I realize I’m standing in the laundry room, noting the machines in the corner. I take two steps and almost fall into a pile of gear—men’s boots, coveralls, muddy Carhartt. I move through the room, listening for any sign of life.
Still nothing.
I inch into the hallway, and I recognize where I am, my eyes drifting to the table that I tutored Molly at coming into view. My eyes then stop where Calvin stood the entire time, a flutter of nerves erupting in my chest.
He’s the kind of man that just gets under my skin. And probably everyone else’s, too.
I slide along the wall, touch light switches just to make sure, but keep them off. I use the screen of my phone for a sliver of blue backlight. Every step I take feels like a challenge, like if I breathe wrong, a tripwire will go off in the next dimension and he’ll be on top of me with a knife.
And that thought causes a strange surge of fear and excitement to roll through me.
Yikes.
When I make it to the end of the hall and push open the bedroom door, I realize it’s the master’s. The bedroom is enormous with log beams, a king-sized bed, blackout curtains, and a dresser. It’s freakishly tidy, sheets stretched with military precision, but the desk in the corner is a tangle of paper and cords. I move to the dresser first, opening drawers.
I doubt signs of my brother will be inside, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
Underwear, socks, and undershirts folded tight fill my view. I find a single, rumpled photo stuck under the tray in the jewelry box off to the side. It’s of a little girl, laughing under a Christmas tree. I flip it over. No names, no date, but the girl has Molly’s eyes.
And it’s strikingly endearing.
I move to the closet, pull the door open slow. There’s nothing special, but in the back, there’s a locked gun safe. I brush my hand over the lock, but it’s a fingerprint reader.
No dice.
