The Killing Moon by Dan Padavona (books you have to read TXT) 📗

silence that followed thickened. There was something left unsaid between them—another apology for the way she prejudged him last April, though she’d already told him multiple times she was sorry. Chelsey brushed her hair over her shoulder. “Ready to find a way inside?”

“Let’s do this.”

During the short time Raven’s brother had worked for Wolf Lake Consulting, he’d grown on Chelsey. Technically, LeVar wouldn’t be eligible for a private investigator’s license in New York State until he turned twenty-five. Chelsey skirted the rule by naming him a student intern. The teenager worked hard and displayed a veteran’s instinct, though she wasn’t comfortable letting him carry a weapon. Not yet. She needed to observe LeVar a little longer, see how he responded under pressure. The last thing she needed was an ex-gang member shooting a violent offender in self-defense. The authorities wouldn’t give LeVar the benefit of the doubt.

Still, the teenager possessed a steadying presence that grounded Chelsey. Now and then, he came up with a joke that released the tension between them. He was so much like his sister. Headstrong, independent, fearless. But could she depend on him?

The meadow grew past their shins. Dead grass crunched underfoot as they crossed the property. Signaling Chelsey to wait, LeVar stopped and gazed inside the garage.

“See anything?”

“Tire tracks. No way to tell how old they are.”

Shielded from the elements, tire tracks would last a long time inside the dirt-floor garage. Chelsey approached the old home beside LeVar. A window on the top floor drew her eyes. For a second, she swore a shadow passed across the glass. But that was her mind playing tricks on her. Benson couldn’t drive from Kane Grove to the countryside that fast. So why were her instincts on high alert?

She stared up at the farmhouse. A rusty lawn chair lay on its side on the porch. Taped to the inside of the window, a foreclosure sign hung on the door. Chelsey climbed the steps with LeVar right behind her. The kid played it cool, but she caught him shooting paranoid glances back at the garage and the copse.

He lifted his chin.

“How do we get past the door?”

Chelsey fished a set of lock picks from her jacket.

“With these.”

“Is breaking in legal?”

“Nope.”

“Good deal.”

Chelsey slipped gloves over her hands and handed him a pair.

“Put these on. We don’t want to contaminate evidence if Benson left prints.”

Chelsey glanced around before she slipped the picks into the lock. The Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department had jurisdiction over the farmhouse and would probably look the other way. Still, she was breaking the law. Chelsey and LeVar weren’t deputies, and neither had just cause to enter the farmhouse.

The ancient lock was no match for Chelsey’s skill. A flick of the wrist, and the door opened. She expected stale air to roll out. It didn’t. She sniffed the air, drawing LeVar’s attention.

“Smell something?”

Chelsey placed a finger to her lips and removed her gun. Studying the empty living room, she listened to the heartbeat of the old house. Wood groaned inside the walls when the wind gusted. Her hair ruffled from an unexpected breeze. LeVar held Chelsey’s eyes, noticing it too.

Before she could protest, the teenager shifted in front of her and walked toward the kitchen, following the wind. The cold had made its way into the farmhouse, as though someone opened all the windows and invited the premature winter inside. He stopped at the kitchen threshold and pointed. Muddy shoe prints trailed across the floor. A door leading to the backyard stood open a crack, the jamb warped and splintered.

“He broke in,” Chelsey whispered. LeVar moved to the doorway and examined the damage. The ghost of a shoe print marred the outside of the door. After he closed the door, he turned and pointed at the dried mud. Most of the dirt Benson tracked into the house had fallen off his shoes in the kitchen. Now that Chelsey was searching for dirt, she spotted specks leading toward the stairs.

They moved in silence, the last day of October moaning at the windows. Chelsey knelt before a staircase and found more dirt.

“Upstairs,” she mouthed.

LeVar’s body tensed.

The first stair groaned when Chelsey stepped down. Moving to the side, she followed the wall with LeVar on her heels. She fixed her eyes on the upper landing, appreciating the risk. If Benson was inside the house, he must have heard them break in. When Chelsey and LeVar stepped into the open, the fugitive might aim both barrels of a shotgun at them.

An open door beckoned Chelsey on the landing. Chelsey stopped beside the bathroom. After a breath, she threw her body around the corner, aiming left, then straight ahead. She caught movement in her peripheral vision and swung to her right, prepared to squeeze off a shot if Benson attacked. Instead, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Exhaling, Chelsey composed herself. The shower curtain was missing, so it was easy to confirm nobody hid in the tub.

They checked the bedroom next. Chelsey’s eyes stopped on two chairs against the far wall. One lay broken. This was where Benson and Ramos held Raven and Ellie Fisher over the summer. A cold sickness settled in Chelsey’s gut. She refused to consider what Benson would do to Raven if he caught her today. LeVar’s back stiffened, the muscles in his arms twitching.

A closet door stood closed in the corner. Chelsey approached the entrance with the gun ready. She motioned for LeVar to open the door from the side while she aimed the weapon into the hidden space. Sensitive to any sounds betraying an intruder, Chelsey swallowed. Her heart raced as LeVar reached for the handle.

When he threw the door open, Chelsey swept the gun through the darkness. A blanket lay crumpled at her feet. Reaching up, she tested the pull string. With the power cut, the light didn’t respond. LeVar shone a flashlight into the closet. Something was tucked beneath the blanket. Chelsey kicked it with the toe of her sneaker. Soft. She whipped