Page 63 of Hunter or Hunted
Igot the text from Sebastian, confirming I was clear to move in. Only the quiet lull of branches rattling against one another sounded as I approached Evan’s house. I did a walk-around, green trees and brush still sheltering me. I checked every corner of the side and rear of the house. No cameras.
The closest neighbor lived a few hundred yards away, hidden behind a row of wiry, unmaintained hedges. Dewy grass climbed up to my ankles as I stepped from the trees. Brown vines crept the lattice beside the back door. In the summer, I would’ve bet it was pretty. Delilah and her plants—she probably tended to them like children.
Now, they looked like bony skeletons clawing up a mausoleum. They scratched their way beneath the beige siding, spiny edges digging into the cracks of the concrete foundation.
A pit started in the center of my stomach and stretched into my chest. Not a burst of adrenaline in fear of being caught, but a deep aching emptiness that turned my stomach and compressed the organs in the center of my chest.
I’d had vines just like these on my house. Troy’s house.
More times than I could count, I’d asked him to help me clear the weeds from the mulch beds, or the invasive branches that climbed the siding, and he always said he would.
He didn’t. Not once.
Memories flashed as I stepped closer to the rear door. The same divided-lite door on Troy’s house. A pane of glass, separated by little plastic grilles, doing it’s damnedest to duplicate the coziness of a French or colonial home.
So many similarities to Troy’s house already, and I hadn’t even made it inside.
I checked for a camera on the frame, but only found a weathered doorbell. In the corners of the awning rafters, I checked again. An old bird’s nest stared back at me. No camera lens.
I checked the knob. Locked.
Under the dirty mat? Nothing there either.
A ceramic flowerpot on my right held bushels of dead flowers. Only sticks and stems, really.
I lifted the edge of the pot.
Silver glinted in the pale sun.
I grabbed the key from the concrete porch and slid it into the knob. Spun it. Pushed it open.
The smell hit me like a truck. Cat piss mixed with weed. Incense and cheap candle tinged the edge, trying—and failing—to cover the more offensive odors.
Not much to see, though. A dirty Berber carpet underfoot. Cobwebs dangling from the drop ceiling. Some mold stains in the corner behind another dead, potted plant. Maybe a Ficus at one point?
Straight ahead to the right, a dark hallway stretched on. On the left, a rickety staircase with the same dirty carpet and cobwebs, coated in cat hair, ascended to the second floor.
I’d head there later. First, I wanted a quick look over the basement level.
Nothing valuable, though. The hallway continued to a storage room at the rear, filled with boxes in disarray.
On the left stood another doorway, this one leading to a dreary space. A TV hung on one wall. A tattered, worn-in sofa sat across from it. A three-foot bong on the corner table permeated a scent that made my nose curl. It could’ve been dirty water or cola at the bottom. The color made it impossible to decipher.
Another room off to the side featured a washer and dryer. I didn’t see them at first, though. Not beyond the mound of dirty, pungent laundry that covered every inch of cement flooring.
A pair of boxer lay on top, streaked with shit.
Filth. That was the only word for it. Utter, sickening filth.
Probably what Troy’s house looked like, and smelled like, after I left.
On the tips of my toes, I ventured up the steps. Listening for any signs of another person, I spun the knob without a sound.
It opened to a tiny living room almost as filthy as the basement. But there was a hint of coziness.
Artwork on the white walls, turned gray from cigarette smoke, hung between photos of Delilah and her mom, Delilah and Evan, and Delilah cuddled up with a fluffy gray kitty.
A suede sofa with more cushion than the one downstairs. In the corner, and on the floor, a few throw pillows—though smooshed and stained in spots now—lay haphazardly.
