Purgatory, West Virginia
March 30
Afurious wind crashed through the trees. Rain pounded the window panes, and lightning flashed. Finn stared at the ceiling and once again watched the shadows act out a violent, abstract story. The noise wasn’t keeping him awake. He needed the sound to quiet his mind—it was the silence that woke his demons. No, it wasn’t the howling wind or the crash of thunder; there was something else.
A presence.
Finn sat up in bed. The atmosphere in the room was dank and heavy. Outside, the wind shifted, and the trees stopped their protest, the sound replaced by the patter of rain. And inside, something else.
A skittering, a shuffling, a scratching.
Whatever this was in the house, if it had a pulse, it wouldn’t for long.
On silent feet, weapon in hand, Finn stepped out into the hall. The air was charged and still. He had the ludicrous thought that the house was holding its breath. He turned to Venable’s office. The door was open, the room dark. For once, that room was not the source of disquiet.
Finn moved like a ghost down the stairs, swift and soundless. He thumbed off the safety on the Sig and moved to the kitchen. The entire space was held in an anticipatory clench, like a grenade with a pulled pin, aware of potential destruction. Finn flipped a switch, and one lone fluorescent light hummed on beneath the hanging row of cabinets. The rubber flap of the pet door was on the inside of the frame. Finn pushed the flap out with the toe of his boot, cursing himself for not nailing the thing shut or boarding it over the first time he saw it.
He cleared the room, checking cabinets and corners; he even looked in the fridge. As he closed the door, he stopped. The top on the milk was slightly askew. He corrected it, unscrewing and retwisting the blue cap.
He surveyed the plate of leftovers, the loaf of bread, the eggs, the small bowl of apples. Closing the door, he turned to the pantry. Gun drawn, he pulled open the door and tugged the string illuminating the single bare bulb.
The shelves were neat and undisturbed, canned goods and staples in orderly rows. And behind the case of homemade booze, two duct-taped sneakers pulled back out of sight.
“Auggie, what the fuck?”
A blond head appeared from behind the crate. “Sorry, Finn.”
“Don’t fucking sorry me. Tomorrow I’m going to line up some melons on the fence posts and show you what almost happened to your head.”
“Sorry,” the child repeated.
“You better have a really goddamned good reason for sneaking in here in the middle of the night to steal an apple and sleep on the fucking floor.”
Lightning flashed through the small window.
“I don’t like storms,” Auggie said.
“So sleep in your closet or crawl into bed with your grandpa like a normal chicken shit kid,” Finn barked.
“Grandpa Bill’s dead.”
Finn stood frozen, staring at the little boy. Peering over the liquor crate, he saw the tattered blanket and a well-loved stuffed bunny that appeared to be doubling as a pillow. Shit.
Jerking his head toward the kitchen, Finn reengaged the safety on the Sig. “Come on. Let’s get some food in you, and then I want the whole story. You leave out one single detail, and you’re sleeping in the woods with Elvis. You copy?”
Auggie scrambled up and followed.
Half an hour later, Auggie had demolished half a chicken, a scoop of mashed potatoes, and another apple. Finn stood at the kitchen island with a bowl of chocolate ice cream. He replaced the carton in the freezer and pulled a spoon from the drawer. Auggie eyed the prize with longing and caution, reminding Finn of Elvis’s scavenging scraps.
“How old are you?”
“Eight,” Auggie said. Finn waited. “Seven and ten months.”
Finn set the bowl down but kept the spoon.
“What happened to Grandpa Bill?”
Auggie squeezed his eyes shut, a tear escaping. “I don’t know exactly. He homeschooled me, and I was doing a history assignment. He went out to chop down a tree leaning toward the house. He was worried it was gonna fall on the roof. I finished the reading and made a snack. Then I went out to watch him. He said he’d call me when it was gonna fall so we could yell ‘Timber!’”