Sterling stares at the crooked cross on the steeple. “Yeah.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
“Nope,” the p popping as he draws it out. “That’s why we’re doing it now before I talk myself out of it again.” He gets out of the cab, cold air knifes into the cab, smelling like wet leaves and old stone. I step down onto uneven gravel, my boots crunching loudly in the quiet. The impact sends a pulse of warnings up my side. I steady myself on the door frame until it passes. Sterling comes around the front of the truck, eyes automatically searching— over me, the tree line, the chapel, then the road. Nothing moves. “Last chance to call this a terrible idea and go back,” he says.
“I’ve done worse.” I shrug. “Lead the way, Ghost.”
The narrow path up to the chapel is half-eroded, weeds poking through old gravel. A rusted railing runs along one side, no help at all. Sterling walks just ahead of me, close enough that if I slip, I’ll hit him before I hit the ground. At the top of the steps, he pauses. Up close, the doors are worse: heavy wood swollen with dampness, one hanging slightly ajar, dark splinters, and old graffiti scarring the surface. Somebody carved a heart near the bottom and slashed through it. “You sure raccoons and ghosts are the only things living here?” I murmur.
“If anyone else is inside, they picked the wrong squat,” he says. “Stay behind me.”
“Again, with the being bossy,” I whisper, but I do it anyway. He shoulders the door. It groans like something dying and swings inward.
The inside smells like mold and dust. Light spills through the broken windows in fracturing beams, painting the pews in spots of color. The altar is a cracked slab draped in a filthy, half-rotted cloth. A spray-painted pentagram where a cross once sat. I step in after him. My boots echo on the cracked flooring. There's a heaviness like we are walking into the ribs of something dead. Sterling’s eyes move slowly over everything. The graffiti, the missing pews, the broken hymnals scattered on the floor. Whatever nostalgia he might have had is gone. “Basement?” I ask.
Sterling nods toward a side door near the back of the altar. “The stairs are down there.”
The side door sticks; after a few kicks, it jerks open. A narrow staircase disappears into the dark. Dust motes hang in the beam of Sterling’s flashlight, thick and slow. “Watch your step,” he says.
“Watch yours,” I shoot back, my hand still brushing the wall for balance as we go down. Each step is a muted ache through my stomach. The basement ceiling is low enough that he has to duck. A few bare bulbs hang from cords, but none of them turn on when he flips the switch.Sterling sweeps the flashlight around. Shelves sag under the weight of boxes and old supplies. There’s a metal desk against one wall, a filing cabinet, and a narrow cot with a stained mattress. “Cozy.”
“This is where she used to sit,” he says out loud, more to himself than to me.
I watch him for a second. His face in the flashlight beam looks harder here, carved in sharper angles. “You okay?” Regardless of who our parents are or were, they were still our parents. Some sins never wash off, and we carry that love and hatred with us for years.
“No idea,” Sterling answers honestly, a storm raging behind his words.
“What are we looking for?”
“Anything she wouldn’t want others seeing—paper, photos, a ledger. She once told me: Never leave your secrets where people can find them.”
We split up without really talking about it. Sterling takes the shelves, immediately starting to pry open boxes as I head for the desk. A thin layer of dust covers the top of the desk. Choosing to go with the drawers first, the first one opens with a complaint—some pens, a dried-out bottle of white-out, a half-empty pack of cigarettes. I slam the drawer shut and move to the next. A folder with a list of names lies there; most of them are so water-damaged they’re barely legible. Nothing jumps out as useful yet. “Find anything?” Sterling calls quietly.
“Just proof that your family fucking sucks at organization,” I say. “What about you?”
“Expired soup,” he says. “A box of Bibles. And a mummified spider I’m pretty sure could sue for squatter’s rights.”
“Adorable…” I mutter. Opening another drawer, I run my fingers along the inside edge, feeling for a ridge or seam. There is a slight give near the back. I press harder, the false bottom popping up just enough for meto hook my finger under and lift it out. Hiding in there is a notebook wrapped in plastic…and a phone. “Jackpot,” I say.
Sterling is at my shoulder in two steps. The beam of his flashlight drops to the hidden stash, then back to my face. “Mind if I say I told you so?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, reaching for the notebook. “Save it for when we’re not in a horror basement.”
Sterling picks up the phone. It’s a cheap burner model, dead as expected. That won’t matter to Cam. I peel back the plastic from the notebook. The cover is plain black. Inside, the first page is filled with tight, neat handwriting. Dates are at the top, and notes are next to a list of names.
Marla, 17 – Short temper, slow listener.
Jess, 15 – Smart, hard time with rules.
Iris, 9 – Quiet, shy, easy to manipulate.
My throat tightens. “She kept track,” I whisper.
Sterling tips the flashlight a little so he can read over my shoulder. His body heat brushes my arm. “She always kept track,” he says. “She just never told you what column you were in.”
I flip deeper into the notebook, the ink changing colors once the handwriting gets tighter—more impatient. The notes stop sounding like a social worker’s and start sounding like a strategist’s.Knows too much. Fights everyone. Useful if pointed.“But nothing on us,” I murmur.
Page after page, names, comments, and little arrows connecting children. Girls, she placed, lost, and clearly planned to use. But nothing about us or our pairs. “Either she kept that somewhere else or she didn’t trust paper with it.” Sterling’s eyes meet mine.
