Chapter 4 - The Secrets of Carefree
Leaving Brooke in the safety of the hospital's high-security postpartum ward was the hardest thing I had ever done. But I knew she was safe there; the local police had stationed an officer outside her room after I showed them the text message and explained the situation.
"Don't go alone, Travis," Brooke had pleaded, her eyes red-rimmed but fierce as she gripped my hand from her hospital bed. "She's insane. She... she talked to herself when she thought I was asleep. She whispered to Jonah about a 'debt' and 'the cycle.' Please, let the police handle it."
"The police are setting up a perimeter," I lied, kissing her forehead. "But they need me to show them the layout of the property. I have to go."
The truth was, the police were dispatching units, but the Carefree estate was sprawling, isolated, and heavily wooded with ancient saguaros and thick desert scrub. If Lorraine saw police cruisers approaching, she might destroy the evidence—or worse, she might have a secondary plan that put Jonah in even greater danger. The toxicologist had warned me that atropine can be absorbed through the skin; if Lorraine had contaminated Jonah's blankets or clothing at home, he was still in danger even if he was in the hospital, unless we identified the exact source.
I drove north, leaving the sprawling lights of Phoenix behind as the highway climbed into the dark, jagged silhouette of the desert foothills.
The air grew cooler, thinner.
The turnoff for the Calder estate was a gravel road overgrown with weeds. My headlights swept over a rusted iron gate that hung open on a single hinge. As my SUV bounced down the washboard road, memories of my father rushed back.
I remembered him as a quiet, pale man who spent most of his time in his study. I remembered the day he died. My mother had told me he had a heart attack. I remembered her standing at his funeral, wearing a black veil, not shedding a single tear. She had looked... victorious.
The house loomed out of the darkness. It was a sprawling, Spanish-colonial style mansion, its white stucco walls cracked and stained by decades of neglect. The windows were dark, reflecting the moonlight like dead eyes.
Except for one.
A faint, amber glow flickered from the basement window near the rear of the house.
I parked fifty yards away, turning off my lights. I grabbed a heavy flashlight from my glove compartment and stepped out into the desert night. The only sound was the wind howling through the cacti and the distant cry of a coyote.
I crept toward the house, keeping low.
The back door was unlocked. It creaked open with a agonizing groan that made me freeze, holding my breath. When no sound followed, I slipped inside.
The interior of the house smelled of dry rot, dust, and something sweet—the cloying, herbal scent of dried nightshade.
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I navigated the dark hallways, my flashlight beam cutting through the thick dust motes. I found the door to the basement. It was a heavy, iron-reinforced wooden door, slightly ajar. A warm, flickering light spilled out from the gap, accompanied by the low, rhythmic chanting of a voice I recognized all too well.
I pushed the door open slowly, silent as a shadow, and began my descent into the dark.
