But was it? There are no graves, no history. No one has mentioned his family except for his father. What is real, and what did he create?
My head spins as I make it to the path. I know what it's like to not be able to trust my own mind. I know I can’t rely on what I think are my memories. For every story of what happened to my mother or where my father might have gone, there was another one to contradict the first, and a third to retell the second. Sometimes, I never know what's really real. Could that be what's happening with Jake? Does he know what he's crafted in his mind? He convinced himself so much of the life he told me about, enough to go after Cole Barnes, threatening to tear him to pieces with his bare hands. All based on the kind of man he told himself his father was.
But could that have fed him into the hands of a killer? What did he retell, what did he change or uncover that made it necessary to silence him? What story would end that way? If I can figure that out, maybe I can find him and the others. Maybe no one else has to die.
Rather than heading down the path toward the train tracks, I start in the direction I've never gone. It weaves deep into the woods, quickly becoming narrower and more neglected the further I walk. The path seems to go on for miles but isn't leading anywhere. It twists and dips, occasionally turning back on itself for a few paces before bending around again. I want to give up, but I can't. I've come this far, and I need to see what's on the other end. Finally, ahead of me, the thick trees start to thin out. I can see what looks like a clearing. When I get to the end of the path, I immediately feel like I've stepped back in time.
The house in front of me is nothing like anything I've ever seen in real life. It's sagging and dilapidated, but through the rot and neglect, I can see what a strong and beautifully built home it was once. I don't know how long it's been standing here, but it looks like it's seen centuries. The area surrounding it holds similar remnants of another time. An unusable, rusted pump sits at the edge of a well. A trough once filled with food for animals of some kind is now filled with grime and fallen leaves.
I take out my phone and call LaRoche.
“Have you found him?” I ask.
“Have you left Feathered Nest?” he asks.
“Have you found Jake?”
“I told you to stay out of our way, Emma.”
“There's a house in the woods behind the cabin.”
“It's been searched,” he tells me.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It used to be a house. It was there long before the town even was. I can't ever remember someone living there. It was abandoned a long time ago and then condemned. No one lives there. No one goes there,” he explains.
“Where did Jake grow up?” I ask.
“What?”
“Where did Jake grow up? One of the bartenders at Teddy's told me he knew him when he was much younger, but he never went to visit his house or anything. He didn't mention his siblings.”
“I didn't know Jake had any siblings. All I knew of him was he was John's son. I always knew of them living in the apartment up over the tavern.”
“How about his grandmother? Did you know her?”
“What grandmother?” LaRoche asks.
“He never told you about his grandmother?”
“No. Like I said, all I knew of him was he was John's son. It was just the two of them. He didn't talk much when he was young, but sometimes when he did, he would mention his mother. It was always in passing and sometimes sounded like he was talking about the past. We all just assumed his mother died when he was really little, and he hadn't quite gotten over it.”
“Thanks. Tell me if you find out anything,” I say.
My phone starts to crackle. The connection is becoming weaker, the closer I get to the house. It's like the years looming around the place are sucking me in, closing out everything from the outside world.
“You are not a part of this investigation. You still need to leave Feathered Nest,” LaRoche says.
I hang up and look around. Jake told me so much about playing in the woods when he was younger. There's no way he could have been so active if he really did spend all his time in the apartment over the tavern. I notice details about the house that remind me of stories he told me and the memories he shared. They don't sit well with me. Some of his memories are concrete, like the stories of the cabin and the details of this house. But others are fleeting, not seeming to have any anchor in reality.
I think back on everything Jake told me, trying to pinpoint anything that might help. I let the stories of his childhood home draw me into the house. This is where he lived, hidden away from the rest of a world that barely even knew he existed. I know when I get through the front door, there will be an entryway and then a sitting room to one side.
The door gives way after only a firm push. I step into the damp, musty interior of the house. It's obvious no one has lived in this home for many years. Old furniture and belongings scatter rooms caked in dust and dirt. In some places, the forest has started reclaiming the house. Vines grow along the walls, and trees sprout up in between the cushions of a couch. Somewhere in the distance, a skittering sound tells me animals are more than happy to claim this as their space.
There are a few signs of a cursory search by the local police. It's not a surprise that it wasn’t very thorough. They know this place from one perspective, and that perspective keeps them from considering anything any different. They are exceptional to work with when it comes to local places and people because they know well enough to notice when things are amiss. But they can also rely too heavily on this knowledge and stop, not thinking to go any further.
But I won't stop. This is where I'm supposed to be. Jake's stories brought me here. Now they'll tell me why.
As I make my way through the rooms, I try to find details or places that spark memories of comments he made or stories he told me. So many of these stories were told about the woods outside. There’s not much to go on inside.
But I eventually find a door leading down into the basement. The heavy, dank smell is oppressive. An uncomfortable chill rolls through me. I hold my breath and tense myself, trying to keep my wits about me. My phone provides enough light to get me through the dirty space. Cobweb-encrusted shelves sag under the weight of ancient cans and bottles of food. Crates and boxes hunker in the corners, their contents unknown.
Whenever it felt like it was all too much, and I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts, I used to hide in my secret room. It was like a fort, only so much better.
This basement can't possibly be it. There's nothing comforting or fort-like about it, and it's certainly not secret. There has to be another place, a secret compartment or hidden room. This is a very old house, and it's not unheard of for places like this to have secret rooms, tunnels, and compartments. They were used for all kinds of purposes but were often forgotten when those purposes were no longer important. That left only the family and those very familiar with the house to know the hidden places were even there.
I keep walking through, my ears straining for any sound more than the occasional scuttle of rodent feet and the drip of water from where raindrops have worn the structure down over the years and finally broken through. Toward the back of the basement, I find a large wardrobe pushed up against the wall. It seems so out of place I can't resist walking up to it. The streaked mirror shows the reflection of my flashlight and my scrutinizing eyes. There has to be something more to this piece of furniture than just a wardrobe.
I run my hands along the edge of the base, then up over the curved top. My fingertips hit something uneven, and I move it until it shifts and depresses down into the wood. With a slight creak, the wardrobe moves out of place just a few inches. I grab onto the edge and pull it away from the wall.