c28

I am in the suburbs.

I expect the address to lead me to some sprawling, mysterious open field. Or a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Or an ultramodern, high-tech, heavily guarded compound surrounded by nothing but cacti and dirt. Instead, I'm in the middle of a fucking cul-de-sac.

The neighborhood is your typical early-2000s-style suburb, cookie-cutter houses topped with terra-cotta roofs practically touching each other. It's exactly the type of place that would make a certain group of people feel inherently safe and another feel suffocated and unsettled. I turn another corner and expect to see more of the same, but instead it simply stops. The houses transition from fully built, seemingly lived-in single-family homes to bare-bones framing to empty lots to desert. I roll down the window and it's completely silent, nothing to hear but the steady hum of my car.

I drive for a few more minutes, my car crawling toward the darker section of the neighborhood, the part where the streetlights start to gradually fade and then disappear entirely. There must be people here. I had passed houses with lights on at the entrance to the neighborhood. But now I feel like the only person on earth, totally alone except for the steady silence that floats into the car with the breeze and curls around my neck, my ears.

The GPS announces that I've arrived and I slow to a stop. There's nothing outside my window aside from piles of construction trash. Scraps of lumber. There's nothing livable here, at least not that I can see. I know I should get out of the car, look around. Drive back toward the entrance, maybe. But I feel frozen. I remind myself that there's nothing scary about a place like this. I remind myself that part of what I'm feeling is adrenaline, the fact that it's getting dark, that I've barely slept in the last couple of days. That I'm still processing everything I've learned about my sister, my family over the last month. I've seen a million places just like this back home. They were everywhere after the housing bubble burst.

"It's just a neighborhood," I whisper to myself. But I don't believe it.

I try to count how many houses are here—maybe twenty, twenty-five.

I finally put the car in park, force myself to get out and look around. I close the door gently, quietly. Every step I take sounds loud, like every single person here could hear it, if there's anyone here at all. But there has to be, right? This address exists for a reason.

I spin around, hands on my hips, deciding which direction to go in first. It's then that I spot something in the distance, just beyond the half-framed houses and the empty lots, in a space of flat, clear land. The ground there looks rocky, like it's dotted with objects, all of them the same exact size and shape. I walk toward them, curious, and I'm almost to the edge of the paved road when I realize what they are: Dozens of tiny identical markers. Like gravestones. It looks like a makeshift graveyard without any grass.

But it can't be, right? This is a neighborhood full of normal houses—and what will be normal houses one day, when some developer buys this land and turns it into a chic, off-grid Airbnb paradise. The land surrounding the neighborhood is gorgeous, vast and completely unique, flat and studded with occasional spikes of green, everything contrasted by the endless background of blue sky (now painted with streaks of orange and purple). The last house I had passed while driving to the neighborhood was thirty minutes south of here, maybe. Miles and miles away.

As I move closer, it's clear: those things are markers, and each of them is engraved with tiny letters on the back. Initials. I walk through ten or so rows, searching for some explanation. It's not until I make it to the end that I turn around and see a marker that looks new, shinier than the rest, less coated with dust and dirt, with three letters I recognize. EED.

Evelyn Elliot Davis.

Oh, God. No.

My stomach lurches and goosebumps cover my arms. I look back toward my car, wishing I had brought something to defend myself with. Pepper spray. A knife from Charlie's kitchen. Anything. I tuck my car keys into the crook of my hand, my only weapon.

Suddenly, I feel the urge to look up. To scan my surroundings and make sure I'm alone. There's no one in sight, still, but something is different. One of the closest houses, just down the street from where I stand, has its lights on now. In the glow, I can make out the unmistakable, unmoving outline of a person that is staring directly at me.

My gut is screaming that I need to get in the car. Now. I can't leave the area, not when I'm so close to finding out what happened to Evie. But I need armor. Distance.

I jog to the car and throw myself into the front seat, click my seatbelt, and head out the way I came as quickly as I can. I'm driving so fast that I almost can't stop for the person standing in the middle of the road. Not on the sidewalk, or on the front porch trying to wave me down. But directly in the middle of the road, barefoot, a smile creeping across their face.

"What the fuck," I say as I slam on the brakes.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck

They're walking toward my passenger door now, features shielded by the darkness—and though I'm tempted to peel out then and there, something makes me wait. I take a deep breath and look to my left. Part of me harbors a wild hope, for just a moment, that I'll see my sister standing there. But the figure crouches down at the window so they're at eye level with me, and it's someone else. Someone who looks familiar to me, but I can't place.

"Hazel, hello," I hear the figure say through the window. "We've been expecting you."

I blink at her through the glass, then turn away, moving to shift my car back into drive. All of this feels wrong.

"Not so fast," she says, raising her voice. "Don't want to damage the car more. And trust me, you'd have to walk for miles before you get enough service to call AAA. And out here? In the middle of the night? That's no good, is it?"

I look at her, confused, and she's pointing behind the car. I look in the driver's side mirror and I can see small, raised strips on the road behind me. They look sharp. As if answering my question, I watch a light on my dash turn on right then: low tire pressure warning.

Shit.

I glance back at the figure, who is still smiling at me through the window, as if she's waiting for me to connect the dots. To understand.

I crack the window, just an inch.

"Where is Evie Davis?" I ask.

"She's inside," she says. "Waiting for you."