Page 10

As Eve trudged across the front yard, Shylo followed. The dog’s ears were perked, tail wagging—just happy to be outside. That made two of them. Out here, in the morning air, away from that family, it was easier to breathe, to think.

Eve’s plan was simple: go to the nearest neighbor’s house—3708 Heritage Lane—borrow their phone, call Charlie. If what Thomas had said was true—if Charlie was in town for something “urgent”—then, for the most part, Eve would relax. If she couldn’t reach Charlie, then…

She’d put all her focus on getting that family out of her house. More and more, she had this feeling that something was seriously wrong with them, that maybe they were in league with that figure on the stairs. Of course, she had no proof of these suspicions, and she was no longer certain about what she saw on the stairs, but…

Once they’re in, they never leave…

She paused at the top of the driveway. Muddy tire tracks were grooved into the slush, leading down and bending out of view behind a cut of trees. More confirmation that Charlie had at least driven off. Of course, it wasn’t enough to shut Mo up. Like always, he was there, waiting in the wings with a hundred reasons to panic. Still, she did her best to ignore him.

She scanned the woods, her breath smoking in the gray morning light that filtered through the trees. The snow had stopped falling. The first signs of thaw were setting in. Speckling drops, raining from the branches above, forming streams, snaking down the winding drive. At this rate, all evidence of snowfall might be gone before sunset. Good.

After an arduous trek down the slippery drive, she reached the road. The family’s moving truck was parked out on the shoulder, all covered in a thin layer of drooping, translucent snow. It looked oddly uniform, as if an outgrowth of the ground below. Only its metallic underbelly was exposed, reddish black.

Above the truck, a rusty street sign was bolted to a tree:

HERITAGE LANE

It had always seemed an odd name for a back road surrounded by wilderness. In Eve’s head, the moniker conjured up the image of a gated community. One with pretty little symmetrical houses and elderly neighbors peering out through flower box windows. The kind of neighborhood that saw Halloween as a chance to hand out toothpaste and Bible verses. But this Heritage Lane, like her house, almost looked abandoned.

The road, uneven and narrow, was riddled with baseball-sized rocks. From the flanks, tree branches stuck out at crooked angles, like arms grasping through prison bars. It stretched on for a few hundred yards, sloping down until it met the stark white sky. There, hemmed in by trees, was a thin slice of panorama. Snowcapped peaks poking through the clouds—islands in a sea of white.

She lingered there, taking in the view, breathing in the crisp air. Mountain birds chittered strange songs. Songs she’d never heard before. It all reminded her how truly isolated they were. How, if anything went wrong, help was so far away. Aside from a handful of neighbors (most of whom didn’t even live here during the winter), the closest structure was all the way down near the base of the mountain. A single-pump Chevron gas station. A few miles past that, the Kettle Creek Motel. Or at least that’s what Eve assumed it was called—she’d mentally filled in the blanks from its falling-apart neon sign:

THE KETTL_ _REEK MOTE_

All it took was a passing glance to conclude the establishment had long been abandoned. Another ten minutes past that, just over the Kettle Creek Bridge, the town of Yale.

One way in. One way out.

Again, the Realtor’s warning played in her head, stirring up memories—sediment from the bottom of her psyche. She was pulled back to the first day they’d gone to look at the property. Charlie’s truck had been in the shop, so Dayton, the Realtor, offered them a ride.

Dayton was a slight, graying man, and everything about him, from his physique to the way he spoke, felt contradictory. Despite his small stature, his voice was a deep, gravelly baritone. The kind of timbre that could almost narrate movie trailers. And he seemed plucked from another era, like he’d be more at home wrangling cattle on the frontier or bayoneting Krauts in the trenches. Instead, there he was, dressed in a Canali suit, peering over the steering wheel of a Mercedes sedan.

“Lot of strays out here,” he had said, breaking a near ten-minute silence. “Stray dogs,” he clarified. “More than the usual amount, anyway.” They were about halfway up the mountain when he decided to raise the topic. “Nobody knows where they come from,” he went on. “Some folks call it Stray Dog Summit. I don’t, but some do.” He adjusted the rearview mirror. “You end up buying the house, try using that name with the locals, down in Yale, or even Portland, they’ll be impressed. Tell them you live on Stray Dog Summit and…” He clucked his tongue.

Eve and Charlie glanced at each other, unsure if he was finished. After a few more seconds, Eve opened her mouth to say thank you, but before she got “thank” out, Dayton started up again.

“Name doesn’t make much sense. There’s no strays at the summit. They’re all down at the base, around the creek. That’s why, personally, I don’t call it that. Stray Dog Summit’s a misnomer…” A short pause, then he added, “I figure ‘Stray Dog Creek’ doesn’t have the same ring, though.”

Eve chuckled politely.

Dayton shot her a serious look in the rearview; he wasn’t trying to be funny—

Back in the present, the distant crack of a hunting rifle pulled Eve out of the peculiar memory. She cocked an ear to the sky, the echoing blast fading with each repetition. The morning birds paused briefly at the interruption, then carried on as if nothing had happened. It was a 308 rifle, Eve guessed, the same gun type Uncle Benji used to hunt with. Out here, for better or worse, the sound had become part of the natural landscape, like the howl of a coyote, the cry of a hawk. It had earned its place.

Refocusing, Eve plodded forward. Shylo was chipper as ever. Every so often, the dog zoomed ahead, poking her nose down into the snow. Zigzagging. Sniffing. Then, she’d pop her head back up, looking to Eve for some kind of approval. Each time, her snout was capped with a little pile of snow, and when Eve said, “Good job,” or “Good girl,” Shylo shook it off and repeated the process. The sight of Shylo being Shylo never failed to calm Eve.

The neighbor’s house was farther than she had remembered. At least a ten-minute walk. And the driveway was half-hidden by overgrown branches. She might’ve missed it altogether, if not for the address—brass letters nailed into a gnarled stump:

3

7

0

7

Wasn’t it 3708? She peered over her shoulder, down the long stretch of road. The pines bowed inward, tunnellike, obscuring the view. I probably skipped a property…

Either way, it didn’t matter. Turning back, she descended the narrow drive. It wound through windswept woods, then opened into a square lot. In the center sat an olive-green bungalow. An L-shaped box, with a flattop roof and shuttered windows. Out front, mottled with patchy snow, was a minimalist Japanese garden, encircled by a frozen pond.

This property, surrounded by unruly wilderness, looked more than a little out of place—as if it had been ripped out of a Portland suburb, helicoptered across the state, and surgically implanted here. It was quiet though, peaceful even. True seclusion, nestled away from the road.

As they crossed a small stone bridge, Shylo staggered to a halt, eyes fixed on the water below. Eve carried on, but the dog stayed behind, staring down at the pond, mesmerized. Beneath the murky ice, white koi swam in lazy circles.

Eve called out, “Shylo, come.”

The dog gave her a brief glance. I understand what you are saying, but I do not care. She looked back at the fish. Barked.

“Come,” Eve repeated, firmer. After two more barks, Shylo scampered to Eve’s side. The dog looked up at her, expecting a treat or at least praise. Eve shook her head. “Too slow, bucko.”

Pup in tow, Eve pressed the doorbell with her thumb. A three-tone pattern rang out. Warbled, dissonant. As she waited, she hugged herself for warmth, wishing she’d put on more layers. Was it getting colder? She wrapped a scarf over her face, the woolly fabric scratching against her nose. A solid thirty seconds passed. She tried the bell again. Still no answer. Was anyone even home? There wasn’t a car around, but…

Eve squinted through textured glass, cupping her hands around her eyes. The inside was dark, save for a faint wedge of yellow light casting from a narrow hall. She tried the bell once more. Another long stretch of nothing, and then… the light snapped off. Eve huffed and stepped back. Guess they didn’t want visitors. Regardless, it was probably time to return home, scour the house for her phone, kick that family out, and—

“Can I help you?”

She turned to see an older woman standing on the stone bridge. She was lightly dressed, considering the cold—a thin sweater and blue corduroys.

“Hey, I, uh,” Eve had started to answer when, to her shock, Shylo trotted right up to the stranger.

The woman smiled. “Well aren’t you just the cutest little thing.” Her voice had a tinge of Southern drawl. She lowered herself to one knee, reached toward Shylo, then stopped, and looked up at Eve. “Is it okay to pet her?”

Eve gave a wary nod.

The woman scratched Shylo behind the ears. “Who’s a good girl? Yes you are.” Shylo’s tail started wagging.

Eve stood there, lost for words. Never before had she seen the dog so comfortable around a stranger. In any other situation, Shylo’s trust might have been comforting. But with everything else going on, it only raised more alarm bells.

“You’re the new neighbor?” The woman pushed off her knee to stand.

“Yeah, my name’s Eve.”

“You bought 3709, right?”

There was a hint of something in the question. Judgment? Pity? Eve couldn’t tell.

Still, she nodded. “I— I was just wondering if I could use your phone? I lost mine. Just—trying to reach my partner.”

“Of course.” Walking up to the door, the woman searched her pockets. “It’s Heather, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Heather, still digging through her pockets, asked, “You, uh, okay?”

No matter how hard Eve tried to hide it, people often sensed her anxiety, like it was a piece of broccoli, forever stuck between her two front teeth. “Yeah,” Eve said. “I’ve just, I’ve never seen my dog so relaxed around a stranger before.”

Heather smiled, pulled out a carabiner of keys, and started rifling through it. “I used to foster strays,” she explained. “They called me the dog whisperer. Not so bad as titles go, I suppose.”

Eve, half to herself, mused, “Stray Dog Summit…”

“Hm?”

“Oh, just the mountain.” She gestured around, gave a weak smile. “Stray Dog Summit?”

Heather blinked at her, still not following.

“There’s, uh…” Eve cleared her throat. “Aren’t there a lot of strays out here?”

“Not that I’ve heard of.”

Eve replied with an awkward “Huh…” then let it go. Thanks, Mr. Dayton.

Heather unlocked the door and pushed it open. She gestured inside. “After you.”

Eve hesitated. “You don’t mind the dog in there?”

Heather shrugged. “So long as she doesn’t judge the mess.”