Chapter 6 - The Empty Porch At The Edge Of Town
The gravel driveway crunched beneath the heavy tires of the pickup, each stone sounding like a warning as we rolled toward the weathered single-story farmhouse. The cedar siding had faded to a dull gray over the years, matching the sprawling oak tree that drooped its low branches over the rusted tin roof. I gripped the edge of the passenger seat, my knuckles stiff, staring up at the quiet windows. Aunt Clara’s old Buick was parked around the side, its hood cool under the mid-morning sun, but there was an unsettling stillness hanging over the property that didn't match her usual morning routine.
Caleb cut the engine, the sudden silence inside the cab deafening after miles of hum and vibration. He didn't reach for the door handle right away. Instead, his salt-and-pepper gaze swept across the tree line, scanning the perimeter where the overgrown grass met the edge of the open pasture.
"Stay here," Caleb said, his voice low and steady as he dropped his left hand toward the floorboard, though he didn't pull a weapon.
"No," I replied, shaking my head before he could argue. "It’s my aunt’s house. I’m going."
Before he could block the door, I pushed it open and stepped out onto the damp limestone gravel. The air smelled of damp earth and dry pine needles, a familiar country scent that suddenly felt entirely wrong. Caleb was out of the truck a second later, moving with a quiet, practiced caution that sent a fresh knot of panic into my throat. We walked side by side toward the front porch, our boots heavy against the warped wooden planks.
The front screen door hung crookedly from its top hinge. As we got closer, I saw the latch had been smashed inward, the pine frame splintered around the lock in a jagged yellow wound.
Caleb reached out, placing a warm, heavy hand against my shoulder to stall me for a fraction of a second, then pushed the ruined screen door the rest of the way open. It groaned on its rusted springs. He stepped inside first, disappearing into the dim hallway, and I followed right behind him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The living room looked like a storm had swept through it. Clara was a neat woman—she kept her doilies straight, her porcelain knickknacks dusted, and her photograph albums stacked chronologically on the cherrywood bookshelf. Now, the drawers of the side table had been pulled out and dumped upside down on the braided rug. Framed photographs of my mother and me were scattered across the floorboards, glass crunched under my sneakers as I moved further into the room.
"Clara?" I called out, my voice cracking in the empty space. No one answered. Only the low hum of the kitchen refrigerator replied.
"Check the back," Caleb instructed softly, kneeling to inspect a torn piece of paper pinned to the coffee table.
I hurried through the dining room into the kitchen. The back door was bolted shut from the inside, but the kitchen cabinets stood wide open, canned goods tumbled onto the linoleum. Nothing of high value was missing—her silver teapot still sat on the stove, and her purse hung from its hook by the pantry. They weren't looking for money. They were looking for something connected to me, or to my father.
When I walked back into the living room, Caleb was standing by the bookshelf, holding a single sheet of lined notebook paper. His face was entirely unreadable, the full gray beard masking any shift in expression, but the stiffness in his shoulders told me everything I needed to know.
"What is that?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He handed the paper to me. The handwriting was blocky, aggressive, written in heavy black ink that had bled slightly through the thin paper.
She's not here, girl. Stop looking where you don't belong, or the next stop isn't an empty house.
I stared at the words, the room tilting slightly around me. The danger wasn't just confined to the diner in town; it wasn't just a random act of intimidation by the men in leather jackets. It reached out here, to the quietest corner of the county, touching the only family I had left.
"They missed her," I said, looking up at Caleb, fighting the nausea rising in my throat. "Her car is outside, her purse is here, but she’s gone. Did they take her?"
"No," Caleb said, his eyes scanning the floorboards near the front window where a set of fresh, heavy muddy bootprints marked the exit. "Look at the dust on the floor by the door. One set came in hard, searched fast, and left. They didn't drag anyone out. If she was here when they arrived, she got out the back way before they breached the front."
I let out a shaky breath, the tension in my chest loosening by a fraction, though fear still coated my tongue. "Where would she go?"
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"Somewhere she'd hide if she knew people were hunting you," Caleb said, turning toward the splintered front door. "We need to move. They know you have ties here now, and they'll check back."
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