She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,186

Monterey Peninsula, the city of Carmel wasn’t large. The Welcome to Carmel! sign posted off CA-1 boasted a population of a little over three thousand residents.

At the last gas stop, I had consulted a map and written down directions.

CA-1 made way for Ocean Avenue. We followed it along the coast for about two miles before taking a series of side roads that brought us deeper inland. We found Windmore Road with little trouble and followed it around a series of winding bends in search of 803. Most of the houses were small two or three-bedroom Spanish bungalows with carefully manicured lawns and gardens. Colorful bougainvillea bushes edged sidewalks and driveways. Well-aged Monterey pines, cypresses, and live oaks soared overhead, creating a canopy over the road.

“This is a beautiful street,” Stella said softly, the first to break the silence.

“There it is,” I said. “Up on the right.”

The house was humble—two bedrooms, maybe three. A brick bungalow with a gray asphalt shingle roof and neatly kept flower beds below the front windows. No car in the driveway, no lights on inside.

“It doesn’t look like anybody is home.”

“Or they prefer sitting in the dark,” Stella said.

I pulled the Mercedes to a stop in front of the neatly manicured lawn and switched off the ignition. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll check it out.”

Stella opened her door, got out, and started up the short sidewalk.

“Or we both go,” I muttered, snapping off my seat belt and following after her.

The temperature had dropped with the sun, the air taking on a crisp, cool feel. I thought about my jacket in the trunk of the Mercedes. I thought about the shotgun I had wrapped in that jacket.

Stella was at the front door, peering into a side window. “I don’t see anything.”

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again, louder this time.

When there was still no answer, Stella reached for the doorknob. The front door wasn’t locked. She twisted the knob and gave it a gentle push. The door swung inward over the tile floor of a small foyer. “Hello?”

Something about the way her single word echoed through the rooms told me the house was empty. Then I had a second thought. My mind conjured the image of Cammie Brotherton, dead in the bathroom or the kitchen or the bedroom of some horrible self-inflicted wound, her eyes blank, her lips permanently fixed in some grotesque smile.

Welcome to my home!

The house not empty at all, but a tomb.

Stella stepped into the foyer, and I grabbed her shoulder.

“We need the gun,” I said softly.

She nodded and waited as I ran back to the car and retrieved the shotgun and my jacket from the trunk. I held the gun lengthwise against my body as I ran back, concealing it as best I could beneath the coat from the eyes of nosy neighbors.

At the door, I stepped past Stella into the house, leveling the weapon.

Between the moon and the streetlights, the interior slept in muted gloom. From the sparse furniture in the living room and adjoining kitchen, long, veiled shadows stretched across the floor.

A small wooden dining table filled a breakfast nook in the back. Three of the chairs were pushed under. The fourth was lying on its back on the floor. The kitchen counters were bare. About half the cabinet doors stood open, drawers too. Most looked empty.

In the living room, a battered old couch with threadbare cushions hugged the wall. It had a musty smell, unused, a place for dust to gather as life happened somewhere else. No television in the room, no other chairs or tables, no pictures on the walls.

Beyond the living room was a narrow hallway, darker than the rest of the house, the light from outside pausing at the threshold, unwilling to go further.

Stella followed close behind me as I stepped into the hallway, the barrel of the shotgun leading us.

On our left, we found a small bedroom painted a cheery pink. A ruffled Disney princess blanket and pillow sat rumpled in a heap in the far corner. There was no furniture. Several empty hangers hung in the closet, no clothes.

“Look,” Stella said quietly. A barbie doll watched us from a shelf at the top of the closet, one arm outstretched, the other at her side, her blond hair flayed about.

I reached up and took it down. I expected it to be covered in dust, but it wasn’t. It hadn’t been up there long.

Stella took the doll from me, and we returned to the hallway.

The bedroom across