Page 105 of Running to You

There was definitely more to Michael’s story.

A few seconds later, he stood and pulled a handgun from a holster.

Sam took his out too.

The sight had her pulse racing.

Michael twisted the knob and pushed the door open. He turned, put a finger over his lips, and stepped inside.

Eliza followed but froze in the space between the back door and the basement door. And gasped.

The table by the back window had been knocked over. Four potted plants lay on their sides, pots broken, dirt and leaves and flowers scattered across the floor in the breakfast nook.

She swung her flashlight to the kitchen. Plates, silverware, glasses—everywhere. Shards of glass. Knives.

Mom’s things. All the things Eliza had grown up with. The things that had made this house a home. Destroyed.

The rancid scent of rotting food had her wanting to step back.

“I don’t under—”

A hand slid over her mouth. Not hard, but it silenced her.

“Just in case,” Sam whispered. “Quiet.”

She nodded, and he let her go.

“Stay here.” Michael raised his gun—like they do on TV shows—and moved through the kitchen, into the dining room and then out of sight.

She and Sam stood silently. She barely dared to breathe.

Aside from the familiar creak of a step, Michael made no noise. A minute—maybe two—passed before he returned. “It’s clear. They tossed the whole house. Find your passport as fast as you can.”

Sam gripped her arm and walked her through the house to the stairs. “Go ahead. I’ll be right here, watching the street.”

She didn’t want to go up alone, not in the dark, creepy space that had once been her home.

But she did. At least the stairs were clear of debris, as was the hallway. But her bedroom was wrecked.

How was she ever going to find it?

Her passport had been in a box, which she’d stored on the upper shelf in her closet before she’d moved to Utah. She shined the light that way, but the box wasn’t there. She moved the flashlight beam through the room. Her mattress was bare, cut to shreds. Old stuffed animals, torn apart. Toys broken, a jewelry box on its side, surrounded by cheap trinkets. Makeup she hadn’t worn since junior high crushed into the carpet.

“Hey.”

She jumped.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “I thought you heard me coming. Michael’s keeping an eye out. He told me to come help you. Any idea where to start?”

“Look for a shoebox.”

He did in one direction, so she searched the other.

“Is that it?” he asked.

She saw the bright red box at the end of her bed and crouched beside it. Empty, but maybe… She picked through the things nearby and… “Got it.” She shoved the passport in her jacket pocket and zipped it up.

“Let’s go.”