soundly in his own bed while his granddaughter is locked away. It’s not right. A shift in shadows at the front window catches his eye. So maybe John Dover isn’t resting so peacefully right now. Good, Thomas thinks. Serves him right.
Thomas takes a left back onto Main and another left onto Juneberry, a street filled with four-bedroom homes and large backyards. The people who live on Juneberry tend to veer toward the more expensive beers. Guinness, IPAs, microbrew and craft beers. They are also the worst tippers.
Thomas parks across the street from the Landry home. A carbon copy of its neighbors, the house is set well away from the road and, while there is no sidewalk, the driveway is large and circular, giving the children plenty of room to ride bikes and play without fear of being struck by a car. Jim and Mara Landry come into the bar every month or so. Mara is a wine drinker—pinot grigio—and Jim a Sam Adams guy. They sit at a corner table, sipping their drinks, deep in conversation and enjoying one another’s company.
Thomas remembers thinking that it was nice to see a couple actually talking to each other and not staring down at their drinks or phones or looking up at the television screen mounted on the wall. A light pops on from within the Landry home and, framed by the large picture window, someone steps into view. Jim Landry.
Instinctively, Thomas slumps down in his seat but it’s too late—he’s been seen. Jim Landry’s spine straightens as if suddenly alert and he cups his hands and presses his face against the pane of glass to get a better look. Thomas does not want a confrontation. He’s witnessed one too many bar fights that could have been avoided by one less drink or by making a judicious exit a few minutes sooner.
The front door opens and Landry barrels down the steps, a baseball bat in his hand. Before Thomas can put the truck into gear and drive away, Jim Landry is wrenching the car door open. “Stay the hell away from my family,” Landry says, his voice low and dangerous. “I swear to God I will bash your head in if you come near us again.”
Heart pounding, Thomas manages to yank the door shut. Juneberry ends in a cul-de-sac so it’s all he can do not to throw the truck into Reverse and speed backward out of the subdivision. Instead he pulls from the curb and frantically speeds down to the circular dead end and back down the street past Jim Landry, who glowers at him from the lawn.
It was stupid, Thomas thinks, to come here. Doing so in no way helps Jordyn, only makes them all appear more sinister. He drives aimlessly around until his heart rate steadies, and finds himself approaching the train yard. It makes no sense for him to go there, either. What does he expect to find?
Despite his reservations, Thomas pulls next to the old depot, a shell of a building with boarded-up windows and doors, and situates the truck for a quick getaway, headlights facing the exit. He opens the door and is met with the chilly morning air that is unique to April. Stinging and brisk but with the promise of warmer hours ahead. The depot is surrounded by broken concrete cushioned only by the overgrowth of weeds that over the years have sprouted, untamed, through the crumbling slabs.
There’s no crime scene tape, no police presence at all, no townspeople or press with a ghoulish curiosity. Only him. Thomas carefully steps from the truck well aware that he is one misstep away from a broken ankle or worse. He thinks he hears the gravel pop and looks around to see if another vehicle is approaching but none appears. He’s jumpy, paranoid. Being silly, he tells himself.
He hasn’t been here in years. Not since he was a child and he went with his parents on a cross-country train ride to visit relatives in Pennsylvania. The depot closed soon after and the rails were then used exclusively for cargo transport. Over the years there has been talk of renovating the depot into a restaurant or a museum or something of the like, but, unsurprising, it’s never come to pass. Pitch, for some reason, tends to rail against any kind of progress before it even begins.
A cold breeze brushes against his neck, the sound of metal on metal clatters and Thomas turns to see the red eyes of an