Page 57 of Into the Dark, We Go

And beside it—Duane.

He lay slumped on his side, face contorted and unrecognizable. A gaping hole consumed where his eye had been, flesh jagged and raw. The back of his head was a mess. Bone, hair, and blood indistinguishable. My stomach lurched. I stumbled back, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"Call 911!" I choked before doubling over and throwing up.

Duane was dead.

17

Chapter Seventeen

September, 2020

June and I got separated.With no concept of time, I was stuck in the small interrogation room. There were no clocks, no windows. My phone and belongings had been taken, and I’d already berated myself for not standing my ground. But when the Sheriff picked us up, I was too shaken to push back, too disoriented to track what was happening.

I wish my past experiences with cops had given me the nerve to say,No, I’m keeping my stuff, or refuse to talk without a lawyer. But I also knew that if I asked for one now, I’d be stuck here even longer, cut off from the outside world.

I considered asking to call my mother, one of only two numbers I knew by heart. The other was Lucas’s. But my mother would lose her mind. I’d already missed a few calls from her over the past couple of days, and her increasingly frantic texts had forced me to respond, carefully, trying not to set her off. Lately, she’d been acting like I was some kind of fugitive, like sheknewsomething was up.

I let out a listless sigh and looked around again, hoping to notice something new. The walls were a dull, institutional green, and the harsh fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects. I felt trapped in a morgue.

A single table stood in the middle of the room, its lone drawer locked. Out of boredom, I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. The stale air only added to the foreboding atmosphere. It was all too familiar in the worst possible way.

Someone killed Duane. It had to be murder. Otherwise, why would I even be here?

The lock clicked, and the Sheriff, the same one who pulled us over on the way into town, stepped into the room. I straightened in my chair as if on cue.

"Miss me?" he smirked, shutting the door behind him.

"Not particularly," I said, annoyed—not at him, but at the whole situation. At being detained. At Mitchell. At myself.

He tossed a hefty folder onto the table. The thud echoed through the small room, making me flinch. But I knew the tactic too well. He was only trying to intimidate me.

He sat across from me, tilting the folder just out of my view, pretending to read. I didn’t make a sound. After a few long minutes, he closed it, set it aside, and began tapping his fingers on the cover.

"I’ve already had a chat with your friend," he said, eyeing me steadily. "She spilled the whole story."

"Okay," I said, forcing a casual tone. He was bluffing. June wouldn’t say anything to him. But even knowing that, I felt uneasy. The Sheriff’s presence was dense and oppressive, like someone who knew he could do anything he wanted and face no consequences.

He wanted my version, so I dryly recounted how we found Duane’s body, sticking to the story June and I agreed on.

We were just checking on him. The garage door was open, as was the back door to the house.

"Y’all take anything from the house?" The Sheriff asked.

"No," I lied, hoping he couldn’t tell.

"You’re mighty sure ‘bout that?" His tone made my stomach drop. Did he know? Had he searched the car and found the photos and flyers hidden in the trunk, beneath the cargo liner? But then I remembered my attorney’s previous advice and didn’t take the bait. Besides, how could he be sure we took them? Were they even important?

"Yes," I said firmly, then added, "We didn’t take anything. Am I being detained, or am I free to go?"

"You think you’re so smart and sassy?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing.

I maintained a neutral expression, refusing to engage.

"What the devil were you two doin’ out there, snoopin’ around?"

"Just checking on a friend," I replied calmly.