Page 35 of Into the Dark, We Go

As always, Mitchell stepped onto the porch first. We waited with bated breath when he rapped on the door, but there was no response. From the place next door, a dog yapped, children yelled, and a woman shouted over the hum of a TV, but Duane’s house remained quiet.

Dead quiet.

"Maybe he’s sleeping?" June suggested.

Mitchell knocked louder.

The neighbor’s door swung open, and a disheveled woman wearing a dirty, worn bathrobe peered outside.

"What’s all this racket, for cryin’ out loud?" Her voice was a rusty gate. "Can’t you see he ain’t home?"

"Excuse us, ma’am, we’re looking for Duane Conley. Does he live here?"

"Prob’ly down at the bar, gettin’ liquored up like his old man. Apple don’t fall far from the tree, and them two’s as alike as peas in a pod." She slammed the door shut, and the yelling continued.

Mitchell looked slightly annoyed, but remained composed, and immediately began issuing instructions. "June, get on your phone and find out what bars are in town."

"A bit early for a bar, isn’t it?" Nick asked, wincing at the pale sun still burning our retinas between breaks in the clouds.

"Early bird gets the worm," Mitchell said, and we all walked back to the car.

It started to rain, and I studied how the windshield gathered tiny drops of water, like small scratches on the glass. Nick turned the wipers on. I loved September, but the weather could never seem to make up its mind.

After striking out with Lucas’s parents and missing Duane at home, it felt like nothing was going our way. I couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how much we pushed, it would all lead to the same dead end, that maybe there weren’t any deeper layers to this disappearance. Maybe we were just wasting time, avoiding reality.

Mitchell turned to face me and June in the backseat.

"Do you want to sit this one out?" he asked, making eye contact with me. The slight nod of his head told me he was asking me to play along for his sister’s safety. June was only nineteen, and he didn’t want her in a bar. "We can drop you and June off somewhere."

I frowned. Mitchell’s command to stay behind without consulting me grated on my nerves. I understood that his priority was protecting June, but I wished he’d considered myperspective. Thankfully, his sister interfered, freeing me of the need to construct a polite argument for why I had to come too. After all, Duane wasLucas’sfriend.

"I’m coming with you," June insisted, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

There was onlyone bar in town. Back in Minneapolis, I’d wear makeup and dress up to go out. Here, though, jeans, a tank top, and a plaid shirt over it seemed to make me fit right in.

The "Borehole Tavern" was a worn, wooden building that seemed to lean inward, as if withholding a secret. The parking lot in front of it was unpaved, with only dust and mud covering the ground, but the cars were plentiful. The neon "Open" sign blinked above the door. As we entered, we were met with a thick weave of smells: stale beer, sweat, and smoke.

It was barely noon, but the place was already packed. Our quartet drew some surprised looks, but patrons quickly lost interest. I noticed, though, that June and I were getting some attention from the locals, and I promised myself not to let her go to the bathroom alone.

I was a bit worried Duane might not be there, but I quickly recognized him sitting at the bar.

I signaled everyone to stay behind and sat next to him.

He looked even shorter in person, perhaps because of his slouched shoulders. His face was bloated and weary, with dark circles under his eyes. His clothes were grimy, as if he’d been wearing them for days without a second thought.

"Duane?" I said softly, and briefly, he looked startled, his eyes wide with a flash of fear, as if he’d been expecting someone else, someone who might bring harm. But when his bleary eyes finally focused on me, his tense expression softened, though not into warmth or recognition, but into a faint, guarded reliefthat it was only me sitting there, and not the person he’d been dreading.

His breath hit me before he spoke, sour and thick.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, slurring his words, and then took a sip of whatever cheap bourbon he was drinking. He swayed slightly, his movements sluggish.

"My name is Nellie. I’m Lucas’s girlfriend."

With a struggle, his eyes landed on my face again. "What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you about Lucas." I didn’t bother with small talk—Duane was in no shape for it—and cut straight to the point. "He went home before he disappeared. Did you see him then? Did he say anything?"

Duane laughed, but it wasn’t a funny laugh. It was a scary one, threatening. He wasn’t tall, and his build was quite skinny, so he didn’t seem dangerous. But something about Duane felt off. His laugh grew slower and eventually ended with a sob that he hid with a loud snort. He took another sip of his drink, spilling some of it on the counter.