Page 60 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I push open the gate, then stop as I see that the front door isn’t fully closed. It’s open maybe an inch, so not much, but I know I closed and locked it before I left earlier.

My grocery bags suddenly feel much heavier.

“Hello?” I call out, creeping steadily into the yard. No one answers.

With my heart in my throat, I climb the steps onto the porch and set my bags down off to the side. I feel like I’m hardly breathing as I take another step closer to the door.

The lock plate is scratched.

Shaking, I take out my phone and go to call Camille. I haven’t used his phone number even once since he gave it to me a week or so ago, but this seems like an emergency.

Wait, no. What the hell am I thinking? If it’s an emergency, I should call the police, not my neighbor slash fuck buddy I may sort of like.

But as I go to dial, I pause.

What do I even tell them?

My shitty door was open?

I don’t even know whether anything happened.

Maybe a contractor came.

Maybe—

A sound comes from inside, and I freeze. It isn’t footsteps, but something settling, which, come on, Ryan, old houses do all the time. I’ve just started ignoring the sounds.

Unfortunately, given the situation, my brain won’t let me ignore this one.

“Fuck this.”

I back away from the door, but as I’m doing so, I happen to see into the cottage through the open gap.

The rug.

The small faded rug that normally sits beneath the entry table has been kicked sideways.

Every nerve in my body lights up, and I press the only contact my thumb seems capable of locating.

Camille answers on the second ring.

“Ryan?”

I swallow. “Are you home?”

“Yes.”

“Can you come over?” My voice edges up an octave.

There’s silence for half a beat before his voice lowers, and he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“I think somebody’s been in the cottage,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice from trembling.

“Do not go inside,” he commands.

“I haven’t.”

“Stay outside.” His voice is so controlled it somehow scares me more.