Page 57 of Depraved Truths

Pushing open the busted door and entering the house I gasp at what I see. My gaze lands on the dried blood on the floor, and my blood starts to boil. The living area and kitchen are destroyed.

Allie looks away, making a beeline for the primary bedroom, while I survey the damage. Cushions from the couch are strewn about, and drawers are upended.

“Did the police do this?” I ask Eli, my voice tight.

“No. Somebody else has been here.”

I pull the key I’ve been carrying out of my pocket. “We need to get to his office out back.” Peering down the hall, I see Allie going through her armoire. I signal to Eli, and we head quietly out the back, and through the backyard. I’ve never looked that closely at the building before now— it’s a modest-sized structure with weathered white vinyl siding and a tiny porthole window. The entrance faces the lake. When we enter the man shed, or what Dalton calls his office, the area is in the same disarray as the house was. The desk drawers are open, and papers litter the floor.

I immediately go to the painting and pull at it, trying to figure out how to open the safe. It doesn’t budge so I try pulling it from the left, then from the right. Frustration seeps in as I run my fingers around the edges, looking for a latch or something that would open it.

“He could’ve lied about the safe being here,” Eli says, checking the room as well.

“No, that doesn’t make sense. I held a gun to his head. Even a dumbass like Dalton values his life more than anyone else’s.”

I plop down in a chair and stare at the painting. Something about it draws me in. I study it closely, and then I spot it. Pulling the key from my pocket, I look between it and the painting, realization sparking in my mind.

I get up and run my fingers over the image of a lock. Feeling a hardened ridge, I press the key to the opening, and it slides into an actual lock. I hear a click, and the safe opens. The safe isn’t behind the painting—it’s part of the painting.

“Oh my god.”

“Jackpot,” Eli says.

“Somehow, I don’t think we’ll find the pot of gold we’re looking for,” I murmur. “But I think we’ve found something.”

On the top shelf are bundles of cash, fake passports, and what appears to be some sort of heirloom. Bypassing all of that, I find a manila folder.

I walk over and spill the contents onto the table. The folder contains photographs and a zip drive. Trepidation fills me as Eli grabs one of the photographs. His face drains of color, and the intense pain in his stormy blue eyes is unmistakable as they lift to meet mine.

“It’s Paisley.”

Chapter 39

We leave Allie’s house, bags packed and loaded into the truck. Yes, bags. With Allie, it’s never just one bag. The noon sun blazes brightly overhead, and the skies are a clear blue— a sharp contrast to the weight and gravity of the situation.

She hasn’t said much, and didn’t even flinch when she saw us come back inside from the shed—Eli holding the manila envelope, his hands gripping it tightly.

This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen from her, and I don’t know how to comfort my friend. It’s as if she’s just a shell of the person I know, almost like her soul has been lifted from her body.

A breaking news alert snaps me to attention, and I turn up the volume on the radio.

“Police have arrived at the scene where a body, believed to be Wilson Randall, has been found. Wilson is the son of local Sheriff Bob Randall, who is unavailable for comment at this time. Police are investigating and are scheduled to hold a press conference later today.”

I glance at Eli before checking the rearview mirror, gauging Allie’s reaction.

“What? W–what? Wilson is dead?” Allie stammers, panic lacing her voice. “What about Dalton? Where could he be? Is he coming for me?”

“Allie, you’re safe. You’re safe with me,” Eli insists, reaching behind to rub her hand for comfort. “And with Tessa. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

Tears spill down her face. “But why?” she implores. “Why would you help me? It would be best if you hated me. For everything. For the things I didn’t tell you.”

Eli doesn’t flinch. “I could never hate you. What happened to my sister, to your cousin, was not your fault. You were just a child. I love you, Allie. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I love you too, cuz,” she replies, weeping quietly.

We get Allie settled into my guest room. It’s next to mine, so I can hear her if she needs me. She crawls under the covers without unpacking, curling in on herself. I try to coax her to eat something, but she refuses. So I leave a bottle of water and a granola bar on the nightstand.

I hold back the urge to act impulsively, to go downstairs and end Dalton’s life right now, but I know Eli needs me to restrain my urges. This isn’t about me, nor is it only about Allie. We have direct evidence linking Dalton and Wilson to his sister’s disappearance, but there’s still so much more to uncover.

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