[ Highest Rank #101 in Mystery/Thriller ]
Time has passed. Things have changed. Isabeth, Benny, and Faith aren't quite the same. They have blood on their hands, a code they honor, and secrets they keep locked away. The Psychopath Maker knows this an...
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The headlights cut through the night as Isabeth cruised the Rover down the bumpy, dirt driveway. She and Dalton left her house at nine a.m. sharp but they still ended up at their destination after the sun sunk down. Once they lost the GPS as they journeyed deeper into the Vermont countryside they had to navigate the old fashion, with a map. The trees that enveloped them finally gave away after a mile, dropping them in front of an old, small box of a cabin.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Dalton hesitantly leered out the car window. "This looks like the cabin on The Descent."
"You've been messing with my DVDs." Isabeth shifted the gear to park, picking her foot off the pedal.
Dalton unbuckled the seatbelt. "I had to do something when ya'll were at work." He looked at the dark cabin windows. "Isn't it unseemly to show up to someone's house this late without calling."
Isabeth killed the engine and the overhead lights shined upon them as she opened her door, "We're not visitors."
Dalton quietly closed the truck door, "Then, what are we?" He cautiously followed her up the rickety porch, the steps shrilled under his L.L Bean boots.
"We're inquiring parties." Isabeth knocked heavily on the door; the Bvlgari Parentesi ring Alex gave her pulled away chunks of white paint with every strike she made. "Mr. Yellman!" She knocked harder. "Yellman!"
No Answer.
Dalton looked behind them feeling a chill slither up his back. He felt the uneasy itch of eyes burning holes in the back of their heads.
"Mr. Yellman!" Isabeth rattled the door as she knocked again.
Still...no answer.
Dalton let out a relieved breath, something didn't feel right. A strange calm hung in the night air accompanied by a full moon and a blanket of stars. He was ready to head back home. "I guess he's not here." Dalton headed for the stairs.
"Wait." Isabeth flipped over the welcome mat, nothing but rotting wood.
"What are you looking for?" Dalton meandered between the top step and the porch deck.
Isabeth stood on her tiptoes, the fronts of her navy flats scraped along the wood causing even more damage than last winter's heavy snowstorm. She slid her hand along the doorframe running the risk of getting a splinter, sweeping up dust and awakening a family of termites that setup home in the cabin that she was sure was built by one of the occupants of the Mayflower. A gold key cascaded to the floor, clinking next to her foot.
"You can't just go into someone's house." Dalton popped back on the porch. "That's how people get shot and I've already cheated death."
Isabeth rubbed her hand along the rigged edge of the key. "Where's the thrill-seeking, adrenaline-junkie I know and love." She slid the key in the lock.
