Chapter 23 - THE FOOTPRINT IN THE DIRT
The line went dead with a hollow click.
"Daniel!" I screamed, dropping the plastic receiver onto the floor tiles with a loud clatter. The sound tore from my throat so violently that Mia jumped back against the hallway wall, her eyes wide with shock. "Daniel, get down here right now!"
Footsteps thundered across the ceiling above us. A second later, Daniel appeared at the top of the staircase, pulling his work boots on, his hair tousled from sleep. His sleepy expression vanished the moment he saw me pressed against the counter, shaking violently, clutching the kitchen knife block.
"Sarah? What is it? What happened?" he demanded, taking the stairs three at a time.
"Someone was here. Someone is in the house—the basement!" I choked out, pointing a trembling hand toward the heavy oak door that led down to the cellar. "They called. They knew she was upstairs. They knew what she was wearing!"
Daniel didn't ask questions. In an instant, the gentle, patient husband transformed into the protective guardian who had once pulled me from the wreckage of my past. He grabbed a heavy steel flashlight from the utility shelf by the pantry, stepping between me and the basement door.
"Mia, stay behind your mother," Daniel commanded in a low, gravelly tone that brooked no argument. "Call 911. Sarah, do not leave this kitchen."
"Daniel, be careful," I pleaded, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.
He clicked the flashlight on, its powerful halogen beam slicing through the dim morning air, and turned the brass doorknob. The door swung open with a slow, agonizing creak. The basement smelled of damp concrete, old cardboard, and winter storage. But as the door opened wider, another scent wafted up into the warm kitchen.
The sharp, pungent stench of kerosene.
"Oh god," Daniel muttered, his jaw hardening. He started down the wooden stairs, each step deliberate, silent, testing the boards for creaks.
Mia stood beside me, trembling violently. She pulled her smartphone out of her jeans pocket, her thumb shaking so badly she could barely tap the three digits. "Mom... what is happening? Who was on the phone?"
"Just dial, Mia. Please, just dial the police," I whispered, pulling her behind me, my eyes glued to the dark rectangle of the open basement doorway.
Down below, the flashlight beam danced wildly across the floor joists and concrete pillars. We heard Daniel’s boots scuffing against the cement floor, followed by the metallic click of his lighter, then a sharp, furious expletive.
"Daniel?!" I yelled down into the darkness. "Are they down there?"
"They're gone!" Daniel called back, his voice thick with rage. "Stay up there, both of you. Don't come down."
Of course, I couldn't stay. Leaving Mia at the top of the stairs with the phone pressed to her ear as the dispatcher answered, I hurried down the cellar steps, my hand sliding along the cold stone wall.
At the bottom of the stairs, Daniel was standing near the small, ground-level storm window that opened out beneath the back porch shrubs. The glass had not been broken; the latch had been neatly sliced through with a diamond-tipped glass cutter, allowing the sash to swing silently inward.
On the concrete floor beneath the window lay a shattered glass jar. Kerosene had pooled across the floor, soaking into an old woolen blanket that had been deliberately dragged from the storage shelves and piled directly beneath the main wooden support beam of the house.
Stuck into the center of the soaked blanket was an unlit road flare.
Taped to the side of the flare was a silver charm bracelet—Mia’s charm bracelet, the one she thought she had lost two days ago at the public library.
"They didn't want to burn the house down while we were awake," Daniel said, his voice deadly quiet, pointing the beam of the flashlight down at the dirt floor directly outside the window well. "This was a demonstration. They wanted us to know they could have incinerated us in our beds last night."
I looked out into the window well. Imprinted deeply into the wet autumn mud was a single footprint. It wasn't the heavy lug of a combat boot or the flat sole of a sneaker.
It was the slender, sharp impression of a designer riding boot. Size seven.
"Vanessa," I whispered, the name tasting like ash on my tongue. "She’s back."
"Vanessa Sinclair is an eighteen-year-old girl, Sarah," Daniel said, shining the light around the damp corners of the foundation. "She couldn't cut a window pane with industrial precision or bypass the perimeter alarms I installed last summer without professional help. She’s not working alone."
He knelt down, using a pen from his pocket to lift the charm bracelet from the kerosene-soaked blanket. Dangling from the silver chain was a new charm that hadn't been there when Mia lost it. A tiny, tarnished brass key with a number stamped on its head:
*Locker 412.*
"Oakridge High," I said, cold dread washing through my chest. "That’s Mia’s hallway. That's the locker right next to hers."
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Before Daniel could reply, the wail of police sirens began to rise in the distance, echoing through the peaceful streets of Oakridge like a funeral dirge.
***
