Page 35 of You Belong Here

“Thank you,” I said again, retreating down the porch steps.

Delilah, what were you doing here? I tried to picture her walking this same street—knocking on doors. Naively giving her name with a smile: I’m Delilah Bowery.

I wondered whom she might’ve shaken with her questions—or her presence.

Three more check-ins from Trevor came and went while I moved on from College Lane to my parents’ street. No one else could be sure they had seen her. No one else mentioned her asking about the fire.

We were due another check-in soon. The dark had fully settled, porch lights turning on automatically, moths fluttering overhead in the glow.

All okay? I texted, waiting for my message to show as delivered. It had stalled, but I didn’t know whether it was on his end or mine.

I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. I closed my eyes, hoped he had listened to my warning and was on his way back.

I was running out of time, too. It was getting too late for this. The folks who answered the door now appeared irritated; I could smell the remnants from dinner, hear the televisions in the background. I was a disturbance to their typical evening.

At the house next door to my parents’ place, a couple around my age answered together, both in pajamas—the man hovered slightly behind his wife, frowning. They hadn’t lived here when I was growing up, but I recognized them from my visits.

“I don’t think we’ve formally met, I’m Beckett, my parents live next door,” I began.

“Are you visiting?” the woman asked. Confused, like all the rest, about why I was here at her door after dusk.

“I’m looking for my daughter, Delilah.”

“Oh, yes, we know Delilah,” she said before I even had a chance to pull up the photos. And then she frowned. “Has she been staying at their place?”

“I think so,” I said.

The man shifted into the doorframe beside her, suddenly animated. “I told you,” he said, looking down at his wife. “I knew someone was there. Rang the bell and everything, but she didn’t come down.”

Because she didn’t want anyone to know. Because she was hiding from something.

The sound of a car door slamming closed jarred me. I turned quickly, hoping it was Trevor. But I didn’t see him on the street.

I pivoted back to the neighbors. “Did you see anyone there earlier today?” I asked. “In the backyard, maybe?” It was a long shot, but they had a view straight down from their upstairs windows.

They looked at each other, then both shook their heads. “We only ever notice it at night,” the man said. “The upstairs light.”

My old bedroom, with the writing on the walls.

“I thought it was automated,” the wife said, like she was defending her side of the argument.

“Just that random one inside?” her husband asked, both his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to remove myself from their argument. “Can I leave you my number? In case you think of anything else?”

They promised to call with any leads.

There was still no word from Trevor as I descended their porch steps.

I tried to pull up his location, but it had updated last over thirty minutes earlier. Night had fully fallen now. I imagined him somewhere out there, in the woods.

I needed a drink and a bathroom break. I wanted to pull up a map on the laptop, see exactly where he’d been heading.

I was busy looking down at my phone and almost ran straight into Maggie, waiting at the bottom of my parents’ porch.

“Oh,” I said, hand out in surprise.

“Hi,” she said. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s okay.” I looked at her expectantly. Hoping for a fresh lead; a sighting. A rumor.

She frowned in the direction of campus. “Bill said they’re getting a search together. I came to see if you could use some company.”

She was here not with answers but to offer her support. The same way she’d turned up here twenty years ago, when she’d heard what had happened in her absence. Back then I’d sent her away. This time I didn’t.

“I was just about to stop in for a quick break,” I said, leading the way up the porch to my parents’ house.

But then I paused.

A cloud of gnats had gathered under the automated porch light. And just beyond, a flutter of tape was moving in the breeze.

Both pieces had been disengaged from the top of the frame.

“Did you open this door?” I asked.

“What?” Maggie said, stopping behind me.

“The screen door,” I said, eyes burning. “Did you open it?”

“No, I was sitting on the porch, waiting for you—”

But I was already moving closer.

Someone had opened the screen door. There was a smear of mud on the doorstep. Had they gone inside?

Were they still there?

I kept my phone out in one hand while I pushed the front door slowly open, listening.

The foyer light was also on; I couldn’t remember if I’d left it this way.

“Hello?” I called.

Nothing.

No, not quite nothing.

A steady thump, thump, thump came from somewhere under the floorboards.

Like a metronome keeping time. Taunting me.

Eighteen hours missing. Nineteen. Almost a full day gone.

Maggie tentatively followed me inside. “Beckett, we should call for help.”

I stepped farther into the house, moving toward the basement door.

It appeared shut, but there was a faint light coming from the strip below the door. Had I left the light on down there earlier? I didn’t think so; but I hadn’t slept, and I couldn’t remember the specifics of the last few hours.

From my spot in front of the closed door, the periodic noise seemed even louder. I looked at Maggie to be sure she heard it, too. She stared back, wide-eyed, phone in hand.

Slowly, I opened the door, hand on the circular rail, wooden steps descending underground, concrete blocks all around me.

“Wait,” she said. “Don’t.”

But this was always the difference between the two of us. I had to know. Had to see.

One step, two. Another streak of mud, partly wiped away.

I recognized the sound about halfway down.

The dryer was running, contents uneven as they spun.

The concrete floor came into view first. And then a figure, facing away: dark hair, gray shirt, sitting at the center of the room.

Unaware that I was behind them.