Page 63 of Into the Dark, We Go

Mitchell took a deep breath, letting his grip on the wheel loosen. His face was still tense but softer. "I’ll try to be better. Let’s just get through this."

Neither of ushad anything close to proper funeral clothes. Mitch wore jeans, a gray T-shirt, and his usual denim jacket. I stuck with black jeans and a plain tee, and tied my hair back in a modest ponytail. It was the best we could do.

In the end, we’d been worried for nothing. The funeral had a thrown-together feel, like an obligation someone had remembered at the last minute. Most attendees wore clothes that bordered on careless. Two men had on matching work jackets with a septic company logo.

No one seemed heartbroken. We overheard someone complain about a broken truck. The whole thing felt less like a funeral and more like a coffee break at a run-down auto shop, the harsh fluorescent lighting casting a sickly pallor over everyone.

The urn was already on display, accompanied by a single flower in a vase and Duane’s high school yearbook photo. I was relieved it wasn’t an open-casket service.

But our hopes of blending in quickly faded. We didn’t know anyone, and we stood out. Every so often, we caught cautious, suspicious glances in our direction. I felt so uncomfortable thatit was as if I’d forgotten how to be human; every movement, from standing to sitting, felt awkward and unnatural.

Mitch and I sat in the back, but the room was small enough that we could still hear most of the conversations. Every single person seemed older than Duane and Lucas, so we didn’t dare approach anyone. We had no idea who they were.

"...that bitch and her devil shop!" The words were loud enough to rise above the quiet murmur of voices.

Mitch nudged me. I was wondering the same thing he was: did they mean Mathilda?

"Shush, you," another man, face creased with age and irritation, responded. "Have some respect, for God’s sake."

Mitch nudged me again, as if to say,Go, talk to them, and I mouthed,No!

Now that we had finally discussed him leading the investigation, he was leaving all the hard work, including talking to strangers, to me?

Our commotion didn’t go unnoticed. An older man approached slowly, leaning heavily on his cane, his hand trembling.

"You’re not from ‘round here," he drawled loudly, drawing even more attention to us, "You Duane’s friends? Didn’t think he knew many out-of-towners."

I paused before answering, choosing my words carefully. "I knew Duane through a friend. Lucas Whitman?"

"Awfully sad. Both boys gone." He shook his head, a gravelly sigh slipping from cracked lips. "Like father, like son, I reckon. Duane... just like his daddy. Took the same way out. Must be somethin’ in their blood."

Before I could ask what he meant, a sharp voice cut in, the same man who’d been talking about who we assumed was Mathilda.

"It’s all that crap messin’ with his head, I’m tellin’ ya," the voice snapped. "And that woman, she just poured gas on the fire."

"Who, now?" Mitch asked.

"That witch runnin’ that devil’s den she calls a shop," the old man growled. "She’s got folks’ minds all twisted up, messin’ around with things they oughtta leave be. Ain’t no place for that kind of business in Black Water."

"Are you talking about the shop in town? Mathilda’s?" Mitch cut in, seizing the opportunity.

"Who’re you?" The man didn’t bother waiting for an answer, barreling on with a scowl. "You’re the ones pokin’ around, askin’ questions about the Whitman boy, ain’t ya?"

My hands turned clammy in an instant. There was nothing wrong with searching for Lucas and Amanda, but knowing the locals were aware of our efforts made it feel ominous, like we were, in fact, doing something illegal. Two more men wandered over, drawn by the rising tension. We were starting to feel cornered, and I found myself looking around, searching for an exit.

"We’re not—" Mitch started, but the man didn’t let him finish.

"We got good folks in this town, and nobody was offin’ themselves till you showed up!"

Statistically speaking, that was hard to believe, especially since they’d mentioned Duane’s father had met the same fate. But we were in no position to prove who was right. Or so I thought, because Mitchell had a different opinion.

"Look, I’m just looking for my sister. She came here a year ago, here..." He pulled out his phone and showed them Amanda’s photo.

"Ain’t no whore sister of yours been here!" the guy snapped.

Oh no.

"What did you call her?" Mitch went nuclear in an instant, launching into a full-blown attack mode. I grabbed his arm. It didn’t take much to rile him, but this was the worst possible time.