Page 8 of Into the Dark, We Go

"You washed the socks!" His roar choked the room.

"Yeah." I hated how weak and feeble I sounded. "So?"

"They were my great-grandfather’s lucky socks! You’ve washed all the luck out of them!"

"I’m sorry–" I said, trying to diffuse the tension as he snatched them from my quivering hands. "I didn’t know."

"You ruined them!"

I would later learn that those socks were a treasured family heirloom: a peculiar good luck charm believed to have saved his great-grandfather from a collapsed mine shaft.

Initially, I tried to apologize, but Lucas kept yelling, his accusations snowballing from the socks to my perceived lack of support for his football aspirations. I ended up leaving in tears.

Two days later, Lucas apologized, admitting he had overreacted. He even joked that the socks perhaps worked their magic even better now that they were clean, and his practice had gone exceptionally well.

I swore to never touch his laundry again and even made amends with a small gift—a little green good luck crystal from a local magic trinkets store. He’d laughed and pocketed it, a sign that we were okay again.

3

Chapter Three

September, 2020

My mother was convincedI’d move back in with her in Cleveland, even though I never actually agreed. My apartment and my job were in Minneapolis. I couldn’t just abandon everything. Still, over time, I’d started giving in, easing myself into the idea of coming home. Most of my things were already tucked away in my childhood bedroom at Mom’s tidy ‘90s-style suburban house. Now, the rest of my clothes were strewn across my Minneapolis room, waiting to be loaded into the car.

But one question remained: what should I do with Lucas’s things?

His gym bag and a few leftover items were buried in the back of the closet, a haunting reminder. It seemed strange to take them with me to Cleveland. We’d been together almost two years when he vanished, and now another two had passed. I thought I had said goodbye to the hope of seeing him again, but getting rid of his things seemed sacrilegious.

I hesitated for a moment, then pulled his bag out of the closet. I could recite its contents: the battered boots with a skull-shaped hole on the right heel, the deodorant only half-used, the white towel with a green hair dye stain on one corner from a Halloween costume gone wrong. But I’d rarely touched them. The memories hurt, and I wanted to preserve them. I pushed aside the ‘lucky’ mine shaft socks, grazing the green stone I’d gifted. And there, pressed between the crumpled pages of a textbook, was the Post-It note. I studied the photo Amanda had taken and compared it to the other. Lucas’s symbol was less detailed, just the main shape. But it was close enough to make me wonder if they depicted the same image.

I placed the talismans back in the bag, except for the Post-It note, which I kept aside. I would go to the police and share this newfound information about Amanda and the psychic, but nothing more. I wouldn’t pursue the investigation. I wouldn’t mention the occult symbols. This way, I could assuage my conscience and not lose myself again.

The police stationwas quiet and stained with the sterile, institutional scent of disinfectant. It took me a few minutes to approach an officer. The whole ordeal with Lucas suddenly felt like an open wound to be feasted on again, and I had barely recovered from the last ravage. When he went missing, theyinvitedme as a witness, and I fell for it, foolishly unaware of their intentions. After hours of intense interrogation, they finally disclosed that they had footage of me during the time of Lucas’s disappearance.

Surprisingly, they were already aware of this information before bringing me in for questioning but as I was informed later, they were simply trying to tire me out and extract a confession. An attorney explained that I had the right to leave at any point, but clearly, the police had never informed me of this.

I slipped a pre-printed document containing the information Mitchell and his sister had shared with me onto the counter. But as I recounted their story to the young man, I realized how implausible it was.

"And how are these people connected?" he asked, visibly bored.

"I don’t know, but I thought you could look into that."

The duty officer raised an eyebrow. "Ma’am, what’s your relationship with the missing person?"

"I’m his girlfriend."

He jotted something on a piece of paper. "Do you have any identification with you?" I handed him my driver’s license. He placed it down with a weary expression and tapped the keyboard.

"I see that the missing person’s report was not filled out by you."

"That’s correct. His parents filed it. I was a witness in the case."

"I understand; however, I’m not authorized to share case details with non-family members," he said, returning my license.

"I’m not asking you to disclose anything," I said, trying to suppress my frustration and annoyance. "I just want you to consider this new lead and investigate it."

His eyes rolled ever so slightly, and he said in a ‘I am not paid enough for this’ tone, "Ma’am, I’m sure the detectives have everything they need for this case."