Page 48 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
I don’t care. The front door is wide open, and I am not taking any chances.
I reach her bed and turn slowly, keeping part of my attention on the closed bedroom door. My mouth opens to say her name. Then I realize the bed is empty.
I check the bed, as if those wrinkles in the covers could be my aunt. They are not. I look around, but there’s no place else for her to be in here.
I run from the room, forgetting that there could be an intruder. No,notcaringabout an intruder, because the front door is open at six in the morning, and my aunt is gone.
As I race for the front door, every horrible thought whipping through my head, I notice something. Or rather, I notice something missing.
Gail’s flip-flops.
They’d been by the front door, on the mat where she leaves them. I know they were there yesterday, because I’d noted them when she went out barefoot.
Gail’s shoes are gone. A kidnapper is not going to stop to let her put on footwear.
She wasn’t dragged out by a stranger. She left.
My heart jams into my throat, and I want to curl in on myself.
My aunt has finally had enough of me.
She’s gone.
My breathing picks up as I fight to control the rising dread and pain, the voice that screams I’ve finally done it. I’m too damaged. Too needy. The last adult in my life has left. The lastfriendhas left.
I clench my fists.
Get a grip.
It’s dawn. She probably went for a walk on the beach, and my doom spiral only proves she’s right and I’m not doing nearly as well as I pretend. But I know that, don’t I? I’m more fragile right now than I’ve been in years.
I step onto the porch. “Gail?”
No answer. It’s light out, but just barely. Do I really think my aunt—who never rises a minute before her alarm—has decided to go for a dawn beach walk? That’s my kind of thing, not hers.
Maybe she’s really gone.
Without her car? It’s parked right outside, and when I back up, I can see her keys where she left them, on the kitchen counter.
“Gail?” I call inside. Then I step out and try louder. “Gail?”
The only answer is the slapping of the screen door behind me.
Fifteen
It’s nearly eight o’clock now. I’ve walked to the beach. I’ve taken one of the trails. And I’ve called. That’s where I start and where I end, with constant calls. Gail’s phone goes straight to voicemail. I’ve texted. I’ve left messages. Nothing.
I’m sitting on the front porch when my brain finally calms enough to think beyond the last hour, and I bolt upright.
The lights.
Last night, she came to my door and said she saw my lights on the water. I’d withdrawn under the covers and presumed she’d go to bed. But what if she didn’t? What if she’d gone out?
And didn’t come back in.
That would explain the open door far better than thinking she’d gone for a predawn walk and forgot to close it. What if, last night, she’d seen the lights and stepped out, thinking it was just for a moment, and then…
I race toward the beach. Earlier, when I’d searched it, I’d come from the road. Now, going straight from the cottage, I stop short.
