Page 168 of Smoke and Fire
True,I agreed, and shook out of the deepening thoughts.
The morning remained slow for in-person visits, but the drive-through continued with its usual pace until the lunchtime rush around noon.
Katrina actively scoured each person that walked in but never spoke to them. Thankfully, no one stayed for long. The lulls passed while I puttered through the daily checklist. With Katrina there, it felt weird to read Jess, despite my hunger to find out what happened next. How Bastian had hooked me so thoroughly, I had no idea.
Around one, I finished the latest round of tasks, audits, and answered questions when Bethany called in about another cancelled event related to the fire. After talking through the changes, Katrina stood up. I glanced up, startled by the movement. She slung her bag over her shoulder and smiled.
“Gotta go pick up my friends and get a few more shots. See you soon? Happy launch day in two days!”
With a wiggle of her fingers, she disappeared outside.
That,Inner Me murmured,is not good news. What was she doing sitting here so long? And why will she see us soon?
“I have no idea,” I whispered, “but it’s probably not good for Bastian.”
THAT EVENING,I double checked the address on Bastian’s text with the house I stared at now.
Correct.
With a grimace, I glanced back to the waiting home. Waist-high fence. Dark windows. Abandoned feeling. Creaky garage door. Faded white paint above a half-wall of red brick that had once probably been bright and happy.
Ooookay.
Definitely should have had Sione come. I glanced to the left, where Mrs. Cortez presumably lived. I had always appropriately pegged her as a hot chocolate-over-coffee kind of woman. I made a mental note to check on her tomorrow. For now, I had to go into this creeptastic house.
With a deep breath for courage, I shut my car door and started up the path. I kept my keys in between my fingers so I could slash out if I needed to, and approached. A rock scraped along the ground when I stepped onto the cement porch. I ignored it and felt along the edge of the door for the key. The tips of my fingers found it at the exact spot where I assumed a spider nest waited, so I quickly yanked it off and shoved it in the door knob. It twisted easily and the door swung open.
“Hello?”
Nobody responded, so I used my fingertips to press the door open wider. It groaned as it swung back, admitting blunted light into a mostly dark room. Despite an aged exterior, the inside had a warm, updated feel. Mostly-new carpet led down a short hallway. A bathroom to the left. Bedroom to the right, framed by a coat closet. I flipped on a light and shut the door, lest the kitty-in-question escape.
“Hello?”
I advanced a few steps, probably imagining a rustle in the back of the house. The kitchen and a living room opened up at the end of the hallway. The entire place smelled a bit like fire and burned wood.
Like Bastian.
I set my car keys on an oblong oak table ringed by matching chairs. A tower of wet cat food cans stood on a nearby counter with paper plates and plastic spoons. On the ground lay a small water dish, half full. Shiny cat toys littered the ground here and there.
Driven mostly by curiosity, I moved farther into the living room. A sectional filled up a portion of the space, facing a wide fireplace and a window that overlooked the reservoir. No television, which struck me as odd.
Pictures populated the mantle of the fireplace. I grinned at a dorky photo of what must have been high-school Bastian. He had his arm flung around the shoulders of a younger version of Hernandez. Bastian’s skin was deeply tanned, almost burned. They stood in bright sunshine, grinning. I couldn’t stop my giggle. They looked like they were twelve.
Other photos lived there, snapshots in time. A towering Black man, a lot like Bastian, had his arm around Bastian at high school graduation. Next to them, a girl with Down’s syndrome and a bright, toothy smile stood at his other side, tiny and pale next to their broad frames.
My heart caught.
There are people that need me,he’d said.
Was this what he meant?
I spun around. More photos littered the walls. The coffee table. A desk tucked into the corner. Post-it notes littered the wall in front of it, a variety of colors and sizes. Chicken-scratch writing filled them, nearly illegible. As if someone here didn’t want to forget something. Orhadforgotten and required reminders.
The aging house clearly wasn’t Bastian’s. His father’s, maybe. So where was he? Had Bastian’s father passed away? I presumed the Black man was his father, because he filled most pictures. Was Bastian adopted?
A few older pictures of a woman with auburn hair and bright green eyes were displayed here and there, but not many. Bastian’s mother, maybe? The resemblance wasn’t strong to her, if so. What happened to her?
To any of them?
