Page 77

I study the Valentine house. Curtains still drawn. Mailbox overflowing. A bicycle lying on its side beside the garage. Life interrupted. Not abandoned. Interrupted.

Sayer stares through the windshield.

"My mom forgot to put the trash out."

"What?"

"She always put it out Monday night."

His voice cracks slightly.

"The cans are still by the garage."

Something so small. So ordinary. Yet somehow it hurts more than the police tape. Rhett notices too.

"They expected to come back."

No one packs for forever and forgets the garbage. We cross the street together. The closer we get, the heavier the air feels. Not colder. Dense. As though the neighborhood itself is holding its breath.

Rhett ducks beneath the police tape first.

"I'll make sure we're alone."

He circles the front porch while I stay beside Sayer.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

He isn't. Neither am I.

The front door is locked. No surprise there. Rhett studies the lock carefully.

"No forced entry."

"The police would've mentioned it."

He nods.

"They did."

He kneels beside a flowerpot near the porch steps. Something catches his attention.

"What is it?"

He points. A line of muddy footprints. Small. Barely visible. Leading onto the porch. None leading away.

I crouch beside him.

"They're old."

"Maybe."

"But they survived two days of rain."

That shouldn't happen. I take several photographs with my phone. The images save normally. For now.

Rhett walks toward the side yard.