Page 7 of Collect the Pieces

Ignoring the sign, I circle to the back of the house. Layers of darkness remain around the white rustic Victorian home. For aman who’d had dozens of death threats when he moved in, you’d think he would’ve installed some motion detector lights.

A window on the rickety back utility porch is partially open. I could probably crawl through it but I’d rather not risk getting my clothing caught on a stray nail. My blonde hair’s slicked into a neat bun, tucked up under my tight, black knit cap. The slick black jacket I’m wearing is brand-new and zipped to my chin. My tight black pants are also brand-new. I wanted to avoid leaving any evidence after tonight’s visit. Nothing from my home to be accidentally left behind and tied to me. The small black backpack slung tight to my shoulders and stuffed with supplies has never even been inside my home.

Still, I’ll probably make a mistake. But it’s a risk I’ve accepted.

For Hoyt. Little Hoyt who never got to grow up, to finish school, decide if he wanted to leave town or stay. A child who didn’t receive justice. Not as far as I’m concerned.

Stop. Don’t think about him now.

Let’s get this done.

Slowly, I curl my fingers around the small metal handle on the screen door. A low screech echoes as I turn, turn, turn the ancient knob.

I stop. Wait. Cock my head and listen.

The sound probably didn’t carry as far as I think it did. I tug and the door lurches open with a weary, metallic groan.

Another pause and listen.

I open the door just wide enough to slip through and onto the enclosed porch. It’s so dark, I can barely see in front of my nose as I step onto the bouncy wooden floor. I don’t dare take out my mini flashlight, though. Not yet.

A faint shine ahead of me must be the glass window on the door leading into the house. Beyond that a faint, blueish flicker.

Fear crackles through my stomach.

Mr. Gade must be awake.

There’s still time to leave. Go home. Forget this madness.

I curl my fingers around the brass knob and twist.

It doesn’t move.

I crouch down to inspect the knob. It’s a simple, single keyed lock. Same as you can buy at any hardware store. I pull out the master key I’d bought for this occasion. It’s supposed to work on a variety of simple household door locks.

Metal on metal grinds and clicks as I ease the key into the hole and meet resistance.

I swear under my breath and pocket the key. Although I have a small hammer in my little bag of tools, breaking the glass is a last resort. Instead, I finesse a small, thin, flexible piece of metal about the shape of a credit card out of my jacket pocket. Gripping it tight between my thumb and index finger, I wiggle it into the gap between the door and the doorframe, then slide it as close as I can to the doorknob. I’d practiced this at home on every door in the house. Once I get the feel for the mechanism, I tilt the metal toward the doorknob and quickly pop it back the opposite way. The latch springs free with a sharp click.

I push the door open a few inches and wait.

A hot wave of onions, garlic, and something more putrid rolls through the gap. I turn my head and gag. In all of my planning, I never considered how bad the house might smell.

There’s a slight whine as I push the door a few more inches.

Based on the photos I’d studied from the listing when the house had been for sale, I’m entering the kitchen. My eyes slowly adjust to the gloom, and I can make out old, white appliances—refrigerator, a crusty looking stove, and a battered microwave. It’s almost Christmas, but a filthy pair of Fourth-of-July-themed dishtowels dangle from the oven handle.

I close the door with the softestsnickof metal on metal. Inside, the smell’s even worse. Like the man scrubs every surfaceand appliance with garlic cloves and onion peels instead of Formula 409 and a sponge.

The flickering from the TV in the front room catches my attention. I can’t see what’s playing on the screen but the sounds…they’re not innocent. My skin crawls and my heart lurches as if it’s trying to leave my body and run into the night.

No.I won’t give into my fear. This gets done tonight. Tomorrow, the world will be safer. One less fiend preying on children.

Or you’ll be the one who’s dead.

Or in jail.

Doesn’t matter. It’ll be worth it if I spare another kid Hoyt’s fate.

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