Chapter 1 - The Broken Floorboards
The back door didn't bang open; it splintered with a dull, hollow crack under the sergeant’s boot.
I shoved past Martinez’s outstretched hand before he could grab my shoulder.
"Get back to the sidewalk, sir!" Martinez barked, his voice dropping into that stiff, official cadence cops use right before they tackle you. "I won't tell you twice!"
"That's my kid's mother in there!" I yelled back, but my feet halted at the threshold of the mudroom.
The smell hit me first. It wasn’t rot—not yet. It was sour, heavy bleach mixed with the metallic reek of uncirculated tap water and copper.
Two officers had their sidearms unholstered, barrels angled toward the floor as they cleared the pantry, then the laundry nook. The washing machine was still running, thumping heavily off-balance as it spun a load of heavy, sodden towels.
"Clear left," one muttered.
"Hallway clear."
I peered past Martinez's shoulder into the kitchen. The granite island was wiped down, spotless, except for a child's blue thermos sitting dead-center. Next to it was an open jar of peanut butter with a butter knife resting inside, crusting over with brown film.
Then an officer near the basement doorway cursed under his breath.
"What do you got, Miller?" Martinez called out, his posture instantly stiffening.
"You need to see this," Miller replied from the shadows of the basement stairs. "Call forensics. Right now."
Martinez pushed me back hard against the doorframe. "You stay here. If you cross this threshold, you go into zip-ties in the back of my cruiser. Understood?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He disappeared down the wooden basement steps.
Through the narrow opening, I could hear them talking in low, clipped murmurs. Then the sound of tearing plastic.
Outside, Emily began to scream from the rear bumper of the ambulance. It wasn’t a cry of pain; it was the raw, primal shriek of an eight-year-old watching a monster emerge from the dark.
I whipped around toward the yard.
Mrs. Harris had backed up toward the rhododendron bushes, both hands clamped over her mouth. The paramedics were scrambling to shield Emily, their eyes fixed on the far side of the green pool tarp.
A man was standing near the pump shed, soaked in mud up to his thighs, a pair of rusted bolt-cutters dangling loosely from his right hand.
May you like
It was Jason.
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