Page 110 of Dirty Mechanic
I swing my legs out of bed, heart already in fifth gear, and spot my missing flannel hanging from the window hook.
The bathroom door’s open. Her robe’s still there. But her boots are gone.
Annabelle’s gone.
I yank on jeans and shove my feet into boots, bolting down the attic stairs two at a time.
The house is too still. No creaks. Nothing but the thrum of my own pulse.
Downstairs, Misty’s curled up in a blanket on the couch, fast asleep. Blake’s in the kitchen, feeding Bear a slice of leftover pie. The mutt’s tail freezes when he sees me. Blake looks up, confused.
“What’s Bear doing here? Where’s Annabelle?” I ask, breath already short.
Blake straightens, concern blooming in his eyes. “Bear was at the front door… I thought Annabelle was with you.”
My blood runs cold.
“She’s not.” I grab a flashlight from the hook. “Take Bear, check the barn and north woods. I’ll meet you by the river bridge.”
He nods, already moving. “I’ll check the stable on the way.”
Misty stirs, rubbing her eyes, her hair a tangle of sleep.
“What’s going on? It’s only six in the morning.”
“Annabelle’s gone,” I say, already halfway to the back door.
Gone.
Like a switch flipped and every light inside me shattered.
I bolt down the porch steps, the cold air hitting like a slap.
The sky is barely gray, thick with low clouds and a steady mist. The kind of morning that feels like it hasn’t woken up yet.
The grass is slick beneath my boots as I cut across the field between Blake’s place and mine, heart hammering. Fog clings low to the ground. Trees drip quietly. Everything feels muffled, like the world is holding its breath.
I hit the front yard, past the woodpile, mud splashing up my jeans.
The porch—empty.
The kitchen—empty.
Inside the house, the dogs’ bowls are full. Blankets rumpled. She was here.
I shove back outside. The rain needles into my collar, colder now. The RV sits in the back of the garden. Windows fogged. Side door ajar. Swinging gently, like a pendulum.
My stomach drops.
I charge across the yard, yank the door open.
Inside, chaos.
The bench seat is yanked forward, cushion askew. Storage hatch gaping like a wound. The bathroom door is wide open, and the shower curtain torn and half hanging. Violence caught mid-motion.
A single boot print in a smear of mud stains the floor near the toilet and a spider is crushed on the wall.
Fuck.
