Chapter 8 - The Unwelcome Visitor
The man on the porch adjusted the strap of his canvas bag, his gaze shifting slowly from Arthur to Clara, and finally down to Leo standing on the steps. It wasn’t Miller from the road department. This man wore a crisp uniform shirt beneath his jacket, and pinned to his chest was the unmistakable silver badge of the county sheriff's department.
“Evening, Arthur,” Sheriff Miller’s brother, Deputy Vance, said in a slow, gravelly voice. He stepped down off the porch, his boots clicking rhythmically against the wooden boards. “Quiet out here today. Almost too quiet for an old homestead with a boy running around.”
Arthur forced his facial muscles into a stiff, unnatural smile, stepping forward to place himself squarely between the deputy and the porch steps where Leo stood.
“Evening, Vance,” Arthur replied, his voice unnaturally tight. “We weren't expecting company out this late. Just dealing with some routine property maintenance.”
Vance stopped a few feet away, his eyes scanning the overgrown lawn, the rusted tools scattered near the shed, and the pale, terrified expression on Clara’s face. The deputy’s gaze lingered for a long moment on the heavy, fractured wooden door of the subterranean shed in the distance.
“Maintenance, huh?” Vance murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Funny kind of maintenance. Looked to me like someone was taking a sledgehammer to an old outbuilding when I drove past the tree line ten minutes ago.”
“It was just the boy,” Clara interjected quickly, stepping forward with a nervous, breathless laugh that sounded entirely fake. “He was playing with an old tool he found in the dirt. We already scolded him for it.”
Vance shifted his gaze to Leo, studying the boy’s dirt-streaked face and the stained blue polo shirt. “Is that right, son? Were you just playing?”
Leo opened his mouth to speak, his eyes locking onto the deputy’s silver badge. He knew this was the exact moment of truth. If he told the deputy about the woman in the shed, the locked door would finally be opened. But as Leo looked up, he caught sight of Arthur’s right hand—clenched into a white-knuckled fist at his side, trembling with a dark, suppressed fury that promised severe consequences once the badge was gone.
Before Leo could form the words, Arthur’s heavy hand landed firmly on the boy’s shoulder, squeezing just a fraction too hard.
“He’s tired, Vance,” Arthur said, his voice dropping into a low, warning tone. “It’s past his bedtime. Why don’t you head inside the kitchen and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee? We can catch up on the new zoning regulations.”
Vance didn’t move. He stood his ground, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed the heavy evening air. A strange, foul odor drifted across the lawn from the direction of the shed—the distinct smell of damp earth, sweat, and confined panic.
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“Coffee sounds good, Arthur,” Vance said slowly, never breaking eye contact. “But first, I think I’ll take a little walk over to that old shed. Smells like something crawled under there and died.”
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