Maybe something I had not imagined.
We turned onto Hawthorne Ridge.
Older houses.
Overgrown hedges.
Weathered fences.
A few cars on blocks.
Wind chimes moving in the breeze.
Brenna led me toward a small single-story house near the end of the street.
I recognized it immediately.
I had driven past it hundreds of times.
Nothing remarkable.
Gray siding.
Brown roof.
Small porch.
But once I was standing still in front of it, I noticed things I had never noticed from the patrol car.
Every blind was completely closed.
Not half.
Not partly.
Completely.
No toys.
No bicycle.
No chalk.
No swing.
No signs a seven-year-old lived there.
Even the mailbox had no name.
Brenna stopped at the gate.
Her breathing changed.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
Then reached into her coat pocket.
She pulled out a brass key tied to a worn cord.
Her fingers shook so badly the key rattled.
I placed one hand gently on her shoulder.
“You don’t have to go in if you’re scared.”
She looked at me.
“I do.”
Then.
“If I don’t, you won’t understand.”
She unlocked the door.
The house was dark.
Too dark for three in the afternoon.
Brenna stepped inside.
I followed.
The smell hit first.
Not garbage.
Not sewage.
Something else.
Dust.
Old fabric.
