Page 100 of Silent Bones

Her last thought, as the edges of the world collapsed inward, was strange: I hope someone finds Dusty.

And then everything went dark.

The dog wouldn’t shutup.

It had been going on for a few minutes now, sharp, angry bursts slicing through the otherwise peaceful evening on Pine Haven Road. Mrs. Eleanor Stanwick lowered the tatteredReader’s Digestin her lap and peered through the screen door of her porch.

Dusty?

The Calder girl’s retriever mix was out again, pawing at the grass and growling in the direction of the woods. His leash was still clipped to his collar, dragging like a forgotten ribbon.

She frowned. That wasn’t like him.

The last time he got out, he’d just paced the yard whining until someone noticed. But this, this was different. Hackles raised. Bark pitched with panic.

She stepped out onto the porch in her orthopedic sandals and squinted at the Calder house. The back door was wide open.

“Damn wind,” she muttered.

Eleanor shuffled across her lawn, the grass still holding onto the sun’s warmth, Dusty darting a few steps ahead then circling back toward her. Barking again. Toward the trees this time.

“Shh, Dusty, shh. You’re gonna wake up half the lake.”

The dog ignored her.

She reached the porch steps and froze.

There was broken glass inside. A puddle of milk creeping across the kitchen floor.

“Hello?” Eleanor called, rapping gently on the open door. “Avery, honey? You home?”

No answer.

Her eyes flicked around, nothing looked wrecked, but it didn’t look right either. The fridge door was open an inch. A glass lay in shards near the table leg. A single Converse sneaker sat sideways by the back mat.

She needed to get help. Eleanor hurried around to the front of the house where the police cruiser sat silent in the driveway. But the deputy wasn't inside the vehicle. She found him crumpled on the asphalt beside the open driver's door, his uniform dark with blood. A hunting knife protruded from his neck at an obscene angle, its handle glinting dully in the light.

Eleanor pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Something clawed at her gut.

She turned and hurried back across the lawn, pulling her phone from her sweater pocket as she went. Her fingers shook as she tapped 9-1-1.

“State your emergency,” came the operator’s voice.

“This is Eleanor Stanwick,” she said, panting now, not from exertion but from fear. “A deputy is dead. I repeat, a deputy is dead, and I think something’s terribly wrong at the Calder residence. Their dog is loose. Back door’s open. Nobody answering.”

“Address, ma’am?”

“Four-seven-two Pine Haven Road.”

There was a pause.

Then the voice returned sharper. “You said the property belongs to someone by the name of Calder. Do you have a first name?”

“Yes. William.”

Another pause.

“We’re dispatching a unit now. Stay put. Do not enter the home again, ma’am.”