Page 128 of Shattered Veil

“Well, unlock it,” Luke requested.

“I’m not a dog performing a trick, man,” Colton chuckled. “Just take it easy—other options first.” I moved past Luke and Colton, to the left, up to the window, and just as I began to reach for it, Colton chastised, “Ah-bup-bup-bup, no-no. Cover up like I did—fingerprints.”

I yanked my hands away, rapidly pulling down my sweatshirt’s sleeves, and pressed the heels of my palms against the bottom edge of the pane. Wetness from the snow immediately melted through the cuffs that protected my hands, and when I pressed upward to usher the window along its track, they slipped. I caught them as quickly as I could, leaning the weight of my body into my touch on the glass, and tried once more.

This time, it gave way, leaving an inch-wide opening.

“Fuck, yes,” Colton spoke. “In—window.” I grasped along the crack, pushing up as far as I could manage, and it slid easily. “I know.” He continued murmuring to Claire, “Lookin’ good out there?” His head bobbed up and down as he seemingly nodded to her, confirming all was well, and he sidled up to me. Peering inside, he saw all that I did—an empty kitchen—and set both of his hands on the sill. “After me.”

He boosted himself inside with a catlike balance that I hadn’t expected from him, and once he was on his feet within the house, he brushed his sleeves against his pants. Pulling them up past his wrists, he outstretched one of his hands in an offer to me.

I looked at him, to his hand, raised my eyebrows, and let his offer hang in the air while I let myself in just as he did. Colton’s shoulders shook in a silent laugh as I stepped lightly on the floor below and stood beside him.

His hand fell, and he sarcastically whispered, “Stripping made you graceful.”

I waved away his comment that should have been amusing, muttering back, “I’ve always been graceful,” as I looked around the kitchen while Luke and Liam made their way through the window.

There was little I could absorb about the space aside from the fact that it was alarmingly white. White cabinets. White countertops. White tile backsplash. Though the lights were off everywhere, the color rendered the area anything but dark, and it was apparent that it was rather clean. No dishes were out—no magnets affixed anything to the front of the stainless-steel fridge.

We all looked about, wordlessly pondering our next steps and where to go—where to look. To the left was a dining area, similarly clean with more white accents. To the right was the living area that we were able to see from the front window.

Colton quietly walked around the island, opening drawers with his hand that was once again covered by his sleeve and shutting them as he ruled them out. Luke followed suit and began to do the same, and as I moved to the right, Liam followed me. Entering the living room to gain my bearings, I saw the front door and a staircase to my left, and noted that I could see right past those stairs to the dining area.

Realizing that there were no dead ends to the main floor—the dining room wrapped around to the living and kitchen and vice versa—I returned to the kitchen with Liam. Colton seemed to have found a small stack of mail. Luke was standing beside him, and envelopes were scattered on the island before them both.

I asked, “Mail? What did you find?”

“Well, we’re definitely in the right house,” Luke remarked, pointing at the papers all addressed to an R. Dowler.

On the latter end of his hushed sentence, something rustled from above, and we all stopped our actions. As unnecessary as it was, Colton still held out an index finger as a request for everyone to cease speaking, and all of our eyes shifted upward.

It was a murmur.

A deep muttering that neither I nor anyone else could understand.

That aside, it was still someone…which meant that we weren’t alone.

Colton let out a nearly inaudible, “Shit, someone’s here—yes, Claire—upstairs—stop-talking-stop-talking-stop-talking.” He ordered all of us, “Out. Out. Back through the window.”

Liam grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the exit. Luke’s wide eyes bounced around the room, landing on nothing as if he were considering his next moves. Colton swept all the mail into a pile to be taken with us, but he didn’t get a chance to pick it up because his incoherent words were replaced by something else:

A guttural scream.

Clearly coming from the depths of a man’s diaphragm, the raw, pleading tone grated on all of our ears, causing us to freeze. The hair on the back of my neck rose. Nausea swirled in my gut. I could feel the man’s desperation through his initial screams, and when they abruptly cut off, we were all stuck in place, absorbing the sound of silent horror from above. There was no way to be sure how long it lasted—five seconds? Ten? Even twenty could have been possible, but there was no way to tell because those seconds dragged on.

Then, finally, the silence stopped.

“Fuck. OFF!”

The voice was quavering yet steadfast. Angry. Gritty as all hell.

And it was James.

There was no question in my mind that it was him—I felt it in my bones—and the realization was a shot of adrenaline. My heart raced, my palms shook, and I felt the dire instinct to sprint in the direction of his voice. To…I don’t know…sneak up from behind and grab the man that I assumed to be Officer Randy Dowler by the head. To twist my grip so quickly that his neck snapped. To snatch a knife from somewhere in the kitchen and slash his throat.

That idea was unreasonable, of course. Not because of killing Randy. I wanted to fucking kill Randy, and if it came to it, well…I would happily see myself on the other side and evaluate my options after the deed was done. But because I had no idea of the layout of the upstairs and racing to find him could lead me to be face to face with the man in question, I was stuck in this goddamn kitchen, glued to the spot.

Luke, however, was not.

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