Page 64 of Trapper Road

I’ve just turned into my dad’s driveway after work when the emergency call comes over the radio. There’s been a reported incident near Stillhouse Lake, and I immediately recognize the address. It’s Gwen’s house, just down the road.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath. It’s certainly not the first time the police have been called out to her house. Usually it’s just for reports of trespassing or destruction of property, but still, I told Gwen I’d keep an eye on the place and I feel a sense of responsibility for making sure all is okay.

I pull out my phone and dial dispatch. I identify myself and ask, “I’m nearby, what do you have?”

“Emergency call from a man who said he and his wife had rented the house for the weekend. When they arrived, they found the place covered in blood.”

My eyes go wide. My first thought is of Gwen — that she or someone in her family might be injured. But I have to remind myself that I heard from her this morning, and they’re all out of town. Nowhere near Stillhouse Lake or their house that’s apparently filled with blood.

I’ve already thrown my car in reverse and am starting back down the driveway to the road. “Any injuries? Active threats?”

“We don’t have that information yet. Units are on the way to investigate.”

I pull out onto the road and hit the gas. I don’t even bother with lights or siren. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

I actually make it to the house in less time than that. I tear into the driveway to find a man and woman huddled together by the mailbox. She’s visibly shaking, her eyes wet and cheeks streaked with mascara. He has his arm around her, trying to console her.

I’m out of the car and have my sidearm unlocked and ready just in case. I approach the couple and gesture to the badge clipped to my suit pants. “Sir, Ma’am, I’m Detective Kezia Claremont with the Norton Police. Y’all the ones who called in a report?”

The man nods. “We don’t live here, we only rented the place. There’s an electric lock on the door, and when we went to enter the code, it was already open. I thought maybe the cleaners were still here from the last renters or something, but when we stepped inside...” He hesitates. The woman buries her head in his chest.

“What did you find inside?” I prompt.

He swallows. “Blood. A lot of it.”

“Did you see evidence of any victims?”

His cheeks color slightly. “We…ah… I didn’t think to look. It was all such a shock. We didn’t know what to do.”

“Any sign of anyone else in the house at all? Did you hear anything? Catch a glimpse of movement?”

“No.” He glances at his wife, who also shakes her head.

“Ok. You two stay here while I go take a look.” I pull my gun and hold it by my side as I jog up the driveway. In the distance I can hear the sirens of more police on their way. I could wait for backup, but if there’s someone injured inside, waiting could be deadly.

When I reach the front door I find that it’s still ajar. I pause, taking a second to listen. I don’t hear movement or anyone calling for help. If there’s anyone in there, they’re either dead, unconscious, or waiting to ambush me.

Adrenaline pours through my system, narrowing my focus and setting every sense on high alert. I let my training take over. I raise my gun, kicking the door open before making a sweep of the room.

Empty.

Details fight for attention in the periphery of my senses: the overwhelming scent of blood, the sight of it coating the walls, the heavy, anticipatory silence of the empty room. It all hits like a punch to the gut, but I push it aside as not immediately relevant and continue forward.

I’ve been in this house dozens of times over the years, and I know it well. It takes little time for me to make my way down the hallway, clearing the rooms one by one until I’m sure there’s no one here.

The last room I check is the panic room off the kitchen. Few people know about its existence, but still, it would make the perfect hiding place. I use my hip to push aside the cabinet hiding the entrance and reveal a thick metal door with a keypad set into the wall beside it. I punch in the code and hear the locks disengage.

If anyone’s in there, they’ll know I’m about to come in. My heart races as I steel myself before shoving the door open. I let out a breath.

Empty.

Only once I’m sure the house is safe and secure do I allow myself to return my gun to the holster and take in my surroundings. The man at the end of the driveway wasn’t kidding when he said there was blood, and lots of it.

Almost every inch of the living room is coated with it, thick arcs spraying up the wall and across the ceiling, massive puddles of it on the floor. Most of it is dried, though in some places the surface still glistens slightly.

The stench of it is overwhelming, a bright coppery smell that sets my stomach rolling. I place a hand over my lower abdomen reflexively. I still don’t have much of a visible baby bump, though I have been forced to use a rubber band to keep my pants closed. I’ve tried hard to keep my pregnancy on the down-low. The last thing I want is for it to be used against me — another strike against me along with being petite, female, and Black.

Even though I haven’t felt the baby move yet, it still feels good to hold my hand against the little bump. Just knowing he or she is in there and safe is enough to give me comfort. I don’t know whether it’s hormones or physiological changes to my brain from being pregnant, but the thought of violence has been a little more difficult for me to process. I can’t help but think about my own child and the horror of how it would feel if something happened to him or her.

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