Page 47

The stakes are higher now, maybe more than they’ve ever been, and it’s up to me to finally end this once and for all.

Hunter pulls up to the cottage on the outskirts of town. “Cottage” is the generous way to describe it. Shack is more accurate.

We’ve been all over Forsyth today chasing the digital breadcrumbs Pace gave us. We started in an empty, roach-infested apartment on the Avenue, moved on to an abandoned warehouse by the river covered in graffiti, and just left a derelict industrial office building in West End that had more rats than actual human occupants.

“Ten bucks it smells like cat piss and mildew,” Hunter says, cutting the engine and staring at the sunken roof and peeling paint.

“Can’t be worse than that last one,” Arianette says with a visible shudder. The memory of that duct-taped refrigerator still haunts all of us.

“Doll Baby,” I say, reaching back to run my hand down her thigh, “you don’t have to go in there.” I pull the gun from behind my back and set it on the dashboard for her. “If it’s like the others, we’ll be in and out quickly.”

“No,” she replies, the same answer she’s given at every stop, “I’m going in.”

She’s been like this ever since she confronted Mateo in the dungeon–present and insistent on being part of everything. I can’t tell if she’s trying to outrun the pain of Timothy shutting her out or if she’s proving something to herself. Either way, I like this version of her, even if it keeps me on edge. There’s a wildness under her skin, and we’ve all seen what happens when she’s pushed too far.

We climb out of the truck. The late afternoon air is damp and cold, carrying the scent of rotting leaves and neglect. The yard is overgrown with dead grass and tangled weeds that catch at our boots as we approach the front porch. Several boards are missing or rotted through. Hunter goes first, testing each step before we follow. Inside, the place is worse than the outside.

It smells exactly as Hunter predicted–stale cat piss mixed with mildew and something sour underneath. A thick layer of dust coats every surface. Worn-out furniture sags in the corners, stuffing spilling from torn cushions. We move methodically, flipping over cushions, rifling through drawers, and checking every cabinet. Old fast food wrappers, empty beer cans, and a few syringes litter the floor. Hunter kicks aside a stained mattress in the corner while I check the kitchen, gagging at the pile of moldy dishes in the sink.

We move through the shack methodically, taking our time. Hunter heads toward the back rooms while I start in the main living area. I flip over the sagging couch, checking underneath for anything taped to the frame. Nothing but dust bunnies and a few empty cigarette packs. Arianette opens drawers in the kitchen, her face scrunched up in disgust as she sifts through old takeout containers and silverware caked in grime. I crouch down and peer under the coffee table, then move to the TV stand, pulling it away from the wall to check behind it.

Every closet and cabinet gets opened. Hunter yanks open a narrow one in the hallway, revealing nothing but a broken vacuum and a single moldy towel. I check the bedroom closet, pushing aside empty wire hangers. We lift mattresses, check under beds, tap on floorboards for hollow spots, and even pull out the refrigerator to look behind it. The whole place feels wrong–like someone lived here just enough to leave a trail, but not enough to actually call it home.

I’m dragging my boot through a thick layer of dust on the floor when something catches my eye. On the floor by a bookshelf, there’s a small arrangement of dried twigs and stems.

My stomach tightens.

It’s four branches arranged in a rough diamond shape. Three of them are intact, but the fourth branch is snapped clean in half, pressed deliberately into place rather than broken naturally. It’s completely abstract, but also? It’s definitely not.

“Hey,” I call out quietly. “Hunt, look at this.”

He crosses the room in a few strides and crouches beside me, eyes narrowing at the diamond-shaped design. Arianette steps closer, peering over my shoulder.

“Damn,” Hunter mutters.

“I told you,” Arianette says, voice quivering. “I told you those weren’t just random sticks by Laura’s body.”

I stand up slowly, eyes scanning the room. We’ve gone over everything, and so far there’s nothing, just like the other places. Hunter tilts his head, studying the bookshelf. He reaches out and pushes against the back panel. A soft mechanical click echoes through the room.

The entire bookshelf swings outward like a door.

Behind it is a gaping door and staircase, leading down.

“Fuck,” I breathe. “More tunnels.”

I pull Arianette close to my side as we turn on our phone flashlights and descend the narrow wooden staircase, guns out. The deeper we go, the cleaner the air becomes. The rot and decay of the upstairs world fades away, replaced by cool, dry air that smells faintly of bleach.

“What the hell?” Hunter mutters. “Are you seeing this?”

“Yeah, man,” I reply, keeping Ari close. We’ve been in a lot of secret passages in Forsyth, and unfortunately, none smell like a cleaning crew just came through.

At the bottom is a heavy metal door with a punch-code keypad. No numbers, just letters.

“Any thoughts?” I ask.

Hunter stares at it for several seconds, then says, “BCG.”

I punch in the letters. The lock disengages with a soft beep.