Face at the Door

For a moment neither of us moved, like moving would make it more real. Winnie's voice came out as a broken whisper against my neck. "I saw him put them in, Daddy. He said if I made a sound he'd put me in the water too."

Every instinct told me to run — over the fence, into the truck, straight to the sheriff's office. I'd taken one step toward the gate when the sliding door behind us creaked open.

Preston didn't look like the man from the real estate brochures anymore. His hair was unkempt, his eyes red-rimmed and too bright, and in his right hand he carried a heavy iron fireplace poker like it belonged there.

"Well," he said, stepping off the patio, smiling in a way that had nothing warm in it. "Look who decided to play hero, Caleb. Always the intrusive one."

"Stay back," I said, shifting Winnie onto my hip and putting my body between them. "The police are already coming."

He laughed, low and dry. "No they're not. Mrs. Dunmore's too polite to call anyone without checking with you first. And your phone's sitting in your truck, isn't it."

He was right, and the realization sat in my stomach like a stone.

Preston took three slow steps closer, weighing the poker in his palm like he was deciding something. "You shouldn't have cut that lock," he said quietly, his eyes flicking past me to the pool. "We had a plan for how this weekend ended. Now you've gone and forced my hand."