Chapter 20: Gwen - Hunter or Hunted

I got the text from Sebastian, confirming I was clear to move in. Only the quiet lull of branches rattling against one another sounded as I approached Evan’s house. I did a walk-around, green trees and brush still sheltering me. I checked every corner of the side and rear of the house. No cameras.

The closest neighbor lived a few hundred yards away, hidden behind a row of wiry, unmaintained hedges. Dewy grass climbed up to my ankles as I stepped from the trees. Brown vines crept the lattice beside the back door. In the summer, I would’ve bet it was pretty. Delilah and her plants—she probably tended to them like children.

Now, they looked like bony skeletons clawing up a mausoleum. They scratched their way beneath the beige siding, spiny edges digging into the cracks of the concrete foundation.

A pit started in the center of my stomach and stretched into my chest. Not a burst of adrenaline in fear of being caught, but a deep aching emptiness that turned my stomach and compressed the organs in the center of my chest.

I’d had vines just like these on my house. Troy’s house.

More times than I could count, I’d asked him to help me clear the weeds from the mulch beds, or the invasive branches that climbed the siding, and he always said he would.

He didn’t. Not once.

Memories flashed as I stepped closer to the rear door. The same divided-lite door on Troy’s house. A pane of glass, separated by little plastic grilles, doing it’s damnedest to duplicate the coziness of a French or colonial home.

So many similarities to Troy’s house already, and I hadn’t even made it inside.

I checked for a camera on the frame, but only found a weathered doorbell. In the corners of the awning rafters, I checked again. An old bird’s nest stared back at me. No camera lens.

I checked the knob. Locked.

Under the dirty mat? Nothing there either.

A ceramic flowerpot on my right held bushels of dead flowers. Only sticks and stems, really.

I lifted the edge of the pot.

Silver glinted in the pale sun.

I grabbed the key from the concrete porch and slid it into the knob. Spun it. Pushed it open.

The smell hit me like a truck. Cat piss mixed with weed. Incense and cheap candle tinged the edge, trying—and failing—to cover the more offensive odors.

Not much to see, though. A dirty Berber carpet underfoot. Cobwebs dangling from the drop ceiling. Some mold stains in the corner behind another dead, potted plant. Maybe a Ficus at one point?

Straight ahead to the right, a dark hallway stretched on. On the left, a rickety staircase with the same dirty carpet and cobwebs, coated in cat hair, ascended to the second floor.

I’d head there later. First, I wanted a quick look over the basement level.

Nothing valuable, though. The hallway continued to a storage room at the rear, filled with boxes in disarray.

On the left stood another doorway, this one leading to a dreary space. A TV hung on one wall. A tattered, worn-in sofa sat across from it. A three-foot bong on the corner table permeated a scent that made my nose curl. It could’ve been dirty water or cola at the bottom. The color made it impossible to decipher.

Another room off to the side featured a washer and dryer. I didn’t see them at first, though. Not beyond the mound of dirty, pungent laundry that covered every inch of cement flooring.

A pair of boxer lay on top, streaked with shit.

Filth. That was the only word for it. Utter, sickening filth.

Probably what Troy’s house looked like, and smelled like, after I left.

On the tips of my toes, I ventured up the steps. Listening for any signs of another person, I spun the knob without a sound.

It opened to a tiny living room almost as filthy as the basement. But there was a hint of coziness.

Artwork on the white walls, turned gray from cigarette smoke, hung between photos of Delilah and her mom, Delilah and Evan, and Delilah cuddled up with a fluffy gray kitty.

A suede sofa with more cushion than the one downstairs. In the corner, and on the floor, a few throw pillows—though smooshed and stained in spots now—lay haphazardly.

A fleece throw blanket sunk into the seats of the sofa.

This had been her space.

She had sat on this sofa. Had fluffed the pillows, and folded the blanket, and curled up with her precious little cat.

She’d made this house a home, and he shat all over it.

Had he at least cared for her cat? She’d never talked about her pets, but I’d seen something in her eyes when she petted Honey. Longing. Grief.

I smelled the little bugger, but no sign of him yet.

Had Evan set him outside? Had he abandoned Delilah’s cat because she’d abandoned him?

Had he done something worse?

Teeth gritted, I took a glance into the kitchen. Aside from the sink overflowing with dishes, nothing seemed relevant there either.

Off to the edge of the living room, a short hallway stretched on.

Memories flashed again.

The layout of this place was different, but the vibe, the energy, reminded me so much of the box I’d shared with Troy.

Box. Not a home. Four walls that kept the rain out but had seen so many storms.

More images flashed in the holes of the drywall as I walked down the hall. For a second, it was Evan throwing his fist through it. The next one was higher up, right around eye level. That flash through my mind’s eye was the back of Delilah’s head slamming through it.

On my right, another doorway stood. Beyond it, a bed on a cheap metal frame faced a dresser with a TV on top.

The sheets, yellowed with sweat stains, matched the mound of floral blankets at the foot.

More linens lay on the floor. Nothing hung from the rack in the closet. Just broken hangers above a floor impossible to decipher beneath the clothes.

The only relevant thing about that room was the hole-riddled door that led inside, barely held on by the hinges.

To the left, another door.

This one in mint condition.

With gloved fingers, I twisted the knob.

Cleanest room so far.

A computer sat on a black melamine desk. Joint roaches lay about, ashes scattered between them. Soda cans poured out of the trash can in the corner. I could make out the floor though—deep cherry laminate.

On the farthest wall, the longest one, custom shelves jutted from the green wall. Each one, hand-stained a deep espresso, housed a pair of shoes in acrylic stands.

Except for one.

Third row from the bottom, fifth from the left corner, the acrylic stand still sat proudly. But no shoes.

I slid my phone from my pocket and snapped a photo.

Everything else in this house lived beneath a sooty layer of dust and smog. Not that shoe collection, though. Even the black shelves glinted in the sun that trickled in from the window.

All Delilah’s plants? Dead. The pillows she’d handpicked, the blankets she’d cuddled under? Balled up and tossed around the room.

But he made the conscientious effort to dust and polish those damn shelves.

I don’t know why that made my fists clench more than the shit stains.

Something glittered beside that empty shoe rack. Something pink? Or purple?

I stepped closer for a better look⁠—

Mrreow!

The kitty.

I whirled around, sure the sound had come from behind me. But only Evan’s gaming chair stared back at me.

Tiptoeing from the room, I listened closely. No more meows. I stepped back into the hallway and squinted around the bedroom. Was he hidden in the blankets? Or under the mound of clothes on the floor? I peeked around the corner, and⁠—

Another doorway.

Tucked in the far left corner of the bedroom, hidden from view unless you were inside the room.

“I’m coming, kitty,” I whispered, tiptoeing still. Half afraid of tripping over the linens on the floor, half afraid that roaches—the kind with legs, not the kind filled with weed—would swarm my legs.

They didn’t.

I made it to the door and pushed it open.

The smell made me gag. This was where it originated.

Cat shit lay in mounds all over the linoleum. More overflowed from the litter box, tucked between the toilet and tub. No linens on the floor in here. Just cat shit and piss puddles.

“Mrreow!” sounded to my right.

Atop a tall cabinet, the kitty looked down at me.

I gasped.

Matted fur dangled from his chin. More stuck upright at the top of his head. A red collar clipped around his neck, golden name tag clicking against a silent, broken bell.

Samson.

Samson and Delilah.

That’s where she got the name.

I’d never been an avid churchgoer, but many churches had free or low-cost daycare. As a kid, my mom had dropped me off at different ones from time to time. I vaguely remembered the story.

All I knew for certain was that Delilah killed Samson.

When she’d left Evan, she thought Samson would die in this house. She named herself Delilah as a reminder of the pain she’d caused, her worst regret. Abandoning this little animal she’d loved so much.

“Hey, Samson.” Teary-eyed, I stretched out my hands. “Come here, baby.”

He came in for a sniff.

I slid my hands beneath his armpits and lifted him to my chest.

He snuggled up to my breast, already purring. My heart turned hot, aching and burning, on fire.

“She was wrong, Samson.” I kissed the top of his head, ignoring the smell of urine that clung to his fur. “You won’t die in this house.”

He nuzzled close to my neck.

Easing out a shaking breath to keep the sudden fire in my eyes from pouring over, a breeze fluttered to my flushed cheeks. On my right, just ahead, air rushed in from a cracked window.

It was only a few inches, maybe five, but technically enough for a cat to escape through. Especially if the screen was broken.

Jaw tight, still holding Samson, I kicked through the screen. It fell to the ground outside with a thwack!

Samson jumped, nails cutting through my hoodie to my shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whispered.

His nails retracted slightly, still burrowed into the fabric.

Evan would think Samson escaped through the open window.

I clicked the door shut behind me.

What was I doing again?

Something pink. There was something pink on that shelf.

I returned to Evan’s game room.

And my stomach dropped out of my ass.

A bracelet.

A beaded friendship bracelet, with a pink, plastic butterfly wing, and a few letters strung together.

J+D=BFF 4EVA