Page 15 of Into the Dark, We Go
Mitchell scanned the yard, his gaze settling on a shiny new Tacoma parked by the garage. It seemed like an odd choice for a fortune-teller. The truck looked out of place, its spotless surface clashing with the house’s worn, weathered siding. Mitch clicked his tongue in approval.
"Are you sure this is the right address?" June asked her brother, dubious.
Mitchell answered, "Yes." He hesitated, then finally started walking towards the house. "Come on."
He knocked on the door before I was ready.
"Maybe she’s not home," I ventured, hopeful. But it was quickly doused by a pang of guilt. This was my chance to uncover something about Lucas, and I was faltering.
Footsteps approached. My heart hammered in my chest, loud enough that I was sure everyone around me could hear it. The inner door creaked open.
Through the fine mesh of the screen door, a figure appeared the same height and build as Lucas. My dry mouth seemed to suck all the moisture from my lips. I stood paralyzed behind Mitchell and June.Oh God, I kept repeating in my head,Oh God, this can’t be real. Grateful that they couldn’t see my face, I swatted tears from my eyes.
The man stepped closer to the door, and the light fell on him, pushing his silhouette from the darkness. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, it was most definitely not Lucas.
I swallowed hard, unsure whether I felt relief or disappointment, and hastily wiped my face again with my sleeve.
Mitchell took a decisive step forward, politely introduced himself, and delved straight into why we were there. "Sorry to bother you. We’re looking for our missing relatives. Mind taking a look at their photos, see if you’ve seen them?"
I envied how composed and confident he sounded. The man hesitated, contemplating this suggestion. But then, he opened the screen door, stepping onto the squeaky porch.
He was older than me, probably in his early thirties, dressed in simple blue jeans, a muscle-fit gray T-shirt, and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, looking nothing like the psychic we had expected. Perhaps we did have the wrong address, after all.
He cleared his throat and asked, "Photos?"
I quickly unlocked my phone and handed it to him. But instead of looking at it, he stared at me as if surprised by my presence. I wasn’t sure if it was an "Is this the girl who got away with murder?" look or if I was just being paranoid.
While he studied the photos, Mitchell continued, "We’re actually up in Duluth tracking a lead. We’re looking for someone named Mary Flynn. She owns a business, supposedly registered to this address."
We had agreed on our story beforehand, stating that both Amanda and Lucas had placed orders at an online store to avoid confusing the psychic. Even if Lucas had no connection to this place, it was better to keep our narrative consistent and straightforward. We also decided to keep the odd carvings on the tree, as well as Lucas’s scribbles, to ourselves, at least until we established a good rapport.
The resident of the house looked up at Mitchell and slowly shook his head. "No one here by that name, I’m afraid." Then he turned to me and added, "I’m Nick, by the way."
"Do you happen to know where she moved to?" Mitchell asked.
"No."
"And the people in the photos?" Mitchell continued regardless. "Have you seen them?"
"No." He gave me another quizzical look as he handed back my phone.
June impatiently pushed her own toward him. "Are you sure? Take another look."
He stared at the screen for a couple of seconds, then peered at me again. I turned the phone back to him, showing Lucas’s photo.
"I’m really sorry about your relatives, but I’ve never seen them," he said.
As we got ready to leave, Mitchell insisted we give him our contact information in case he remembered something important later. I didn’t expect much, but I went along with it. Nick took our names and numbers, though it was clear he wasn’t thrilled about it.
June didn’t wait for us and headed to the car, disappointment evident in her long, irritated strides. Mitchell and I didn’t linger; we quickly thanked Nick for his time.
It was unusual to be on the other side of the investigation, the one inquiring rather than the one being questioned. Refreshing, even.
On our short drive back to the downtown area, Mitchell, who’d done most of the talking until now, seemed lost in thought.
Before entering the central street that intersected the highway, he finally spoke. "Let’s stop somewhere and grab a bite. I’m starving."
We chose a small brewpub restaurant. After we had taken a table and placed our orders, Mitchell turned to me. "What are your plans for the near future?"
