It’s dark by the time we get to Third and Chestnut. It’s a residential area close to the center of town. Big, two and three-story homes, many of them Victorian with turrets and deep porches. We’re still not sure what we’re looking for so I pull over my motorhome into a likely spot, switch off the lights, and watch.

Monica is in the passenger’s seat beside me. Tyler is crouched between us. She looks over her shoulder and says, “Amir, can you start digging into this area? Satellite images, real estate sites, social media?”

Yep, we brought Amir with us. He’s back there with Monica’s laptop at the dinette table. It didn’t take much convincing Tyler to prepare the paperwork to get him hired as a consultant too. She’d already said he’d make a good white hat hacker. Besides, we could use him and he needs a place to stay.

I’ve been deep in thought the whole trip here. I look over at Monica and finally say it, “Monica, Dr. Linn does not like me.” I look out the window. I look back at her. “You think she likes me?”

“What’s this now?” says Tyler with a grin.

“Call me, Mo, dammit,” says Monica. “The good doctor told him she couldn’t take him as a patient right after telling him he should go talk to somebody.”

“Ah,” says Tyler. “It’s a good idea.”

“It really is!” says Amir.

“We all go,” says Tyler. “At the agency. Been policy for years now.”

“Yeah, I think she wants to bang him,” says Monica. “Shrinks can’t bang their patients. It’s against the rules.”

“Monica, she does not want to bang me,” I say.

“I’m Mo!” she says. Then she puffs out her cheeks and goes, “Woo, woo,” in the most deadpan impression of Curly from the Three Stooges I’ve ever seen. It’s hilarious and everybody but Monica laughs. She keeps stoic, as any good comedian does. “Mo,” she says.

“You’re just not a ‘Mo’ to me, Monica,” I say. “Sorry.”

She looks at Tyler who shrugs. “You’ve been pushing his buttons. You’ve given him a great big one of your own. Turn about.”

“But mom,” she whines.

“Don’t make me turn this thing around,” says Tyler without missing a beat. “We’ll go straight home.”

The garage door of one of the houses nearby starts to go up and we all go quiet and watch, not sure what to expect. A white car backs down the driveway. Nobody says or does anything. There’s nothing suspicious about it. It turns into the street and then drives off.

“Anyway,” says Monica. “You should totally bang Dr. Linn, Ben.”

I sigh in exasperation.

“What? I’d bang her. She’s cute,” says Monica. “Tyler would bang her in a second.”

Tyler nods once. “I would.”

“I’d bang ya’ll!” says Amir and he laughs.

Monica turns to look at him. “Really? Even Ben here?”

“Oh, Jesus,” I say.

“Especially Ben,” says Amir. “You’re all hot but he saved my life and I’ve been chained to a desk by bikers for four years. See that curvy tree right there?”

“Please don’t,” says Tyler.

“I’d totally fuck that tree,” says Amir. “Wouldn’t even have to take me to dinner first. I’ve got wood for that tree, know what I’m saying? None of you are safe.”

“There’s a bathroom,” says Monica. “Right back there.”

“That bathroom is strictly for bathroom things,” I say. “No romantic interludes in my bathroom.”

Monica sighs. “There go my plans for later.”

“We should probably change the subject,” says Tyler. “Before Amir sprains something.”

“Yeah, and he’s got my laptop,” says Monica.

“Ew,” says Tyler.

“Boss?” says Monica. “How’re you going to explain my presence to the upper-ups? I’m on suspension.”

“You’re staying with Ben,” says Tyler with a shrug. “To keep an eye on him as a friend.”

“I like this plan,” says Monica.

“I call the bed above the cockpit,” says Amir.

“What?” I say.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Don’t call it a cockpit,” says Monica. “Never say cock-anything around me ever again tree-boy.”

“It’s called a cabover,” I say, pointing up. “I think. This is the cab.”

Amir shakes his head. “You proposition one tree and they never let you firget it.”

“That’s it!” says Monica. “Go! Right now! Go fuck your tree! Just get out of here!”

Amir gets up and grabs the buckle on his pants, stumbling for the door.

“Do not go fuck that tree!” says Tyler. “You leaf that poor thing alone or oak kill you myself.”

We’re all laughing.

The light comes on over the door of the big house on the corner. A woman steps out in a long coat, her phone to her ear. She turns to lock the door behind her, and as she does so her long hair slides off her back to hide her face.

I’m pretty sure I know who that is.

I get out of the RV.

“Stacy?” I say.

She turns and I see it’s her. Candace’s friend who gave me a ride that day I met the Wests. Depressed Candace who is also Alex’s sister. Stacy is wearing a black t-shirt and torn-up jeans designed for someone twenty years younger than she is but somehow they suit her. She looks frantic and I know we’ve come to the right place. I just don’t know why.

“Ben?” she says after a minute. “What are you doing here? Never mind. I’ve got to go. It’s good to see you though.”

The door beside me opens and Monica gets out, followed by Tyler.

“Stacy, what’s wrong?” I say.

“Who are your friends?” she says.

“The FBI,” I tell her.

She snorts.

“Seriously,” I say.

Tyler and Monica both show her their IDs.

Stacy says, “It’s Candace. I’m on the phone with her. She says people are trying to get in her house.”

We get moving.

Tyler calls it in and Monica insists on driving, while Stacy Nostrum sits in the passenger seat with her phone held in her hand like a waitress. The mic on our end is muted and Stacy has us on speaker. We hear pounding.

Candace is trying to remain quiet but she gives a little shriek and we all jump. “I think they’re testing the door. They’re going to break it down,” Candace whispers.

I’m doing my best not to topple over as Monica races down the streets as I gear up standing by the side door with the cabinet open, grabbing a slingshot, attaching my pouches of ammo, strapping on my knives.

Monica signals for Candace to unmute us. “Candace, do you know who they are?”

“I haven’t seen their faces,” she says. “I was in an argument with Craig. I want my kids! I threatened to sue. To call the police. There’s maybe three of them?”

“You think it’s Craig?” says Monica. She looks at Stacy.

Stacy says in a low voice, “Her husband.”

She nods.

“I don’t see how it could be,” whispers Stacy. "He's not like this."

“Do you have any weapons in the house? A gun? A kitchen knife?” says Monica.

The pounding intensifies. We hear splintering.

“Candace, never mind,” says Monica. “You find a place to hide right now. We’re almost there. Leave the phone on. We’ll mute our end.”

“Okay.” Candace’s voice sounds so small.

I’m shaking with anger. Candace has it bad enough and now some assholes are breaking into her house to do God knows what to her? Maybe because she wants her kids back and safe? Oh hell no.

Stacy mutes her phone. We all listen to Candace’s terrified breathing as he looks for somewhere to hide and wait for us.

Tyler comes out of my bedroom shaking her head. “We’re closest,” she says. “The cops are on their way but we’ll get there first.”

Monica checks her phone. “Two minutes,” she says. “And I’m going in, boss.”

Tyler says, “Yes, you are.”

“So’m I,” I say.

She looks at me. She says, “You will stay behind me and do as I say.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” she says. “You’re not trained. I should not be taking you in. You can get us killed. If you go you do as I say when I say it to the letter.”

“I will,” I say. I mean it.

Twenty seconds later there’s a scream on the phone and the sounds of a struggle. Thumps, crashes, grunts, and shouts. I know I might be hearing the last moments of Candace’s life. I feel sick.

Tyler and Monica are quiet. Monica’s jaw keeps flexing. Amir is swearing under his breath. Stacy, sitting next to him, takes his hand. She’s crying.

Thirty seconds later, Monica pulls my motorhome up into Candace’s yard, the headlights illuminating her front door which is ajar. The rear of our vehicle is blocking the driveway where a dark sedan sits, idling.

Monica is out with her gun drawn almost before the RV stops moving. Tyler exits from the passenger side and I come out the side door in the back, slingshot and heavy lead ball in its pocket. I’m so mad I don’t feel ridiculous.

Monica is up by the sedan, her gun aimed inside. I hear her say, “Clear.”

We turn our attention to the house.

It’s a baby McMansion. Brick. Three-car garage. Tall narrow windows that in another century might’ve contained stained glass. The house is dark and seems to radiate tension and disaster, like it wants to show us horror and tragedy before it fucking eats us.

It’s possible I’m projecting.

A short series of hand signals pass between Monica and Tyler. Monica nods and leads us to the front door. This is one of the fancier neighborhoods so the street and houses are well lit. From that and my headlights, we can see there’s no one in the yard. No shadows moving in front of windows.

We get to the door. Tyler pushes it open while standing to the side. Monica is on the other. They pause on the threshold, peering in then, satisfied, Tyler darts inside the way she was looking. Monica goes next the other way and I follow a step behind her.

The aethings are spiking light and dark like I’m watching a seismograph in an earthquake. Reflexively, I’m tamping it all down as best I can but they’re all over the place. I push a little harder, terrified I’ll do it too hard, that there’ll be a backlash and I’ll get Candace and maybe all of us killed.

The house is absolutely quiet.

We’re standing in the foyer on white tile. There’s a closet to the right of the door. Ahead of us is a staircase that goes up to a landing, turns to the right, and continues to the second floor. The stairs frame a hallway that leads to a dining area. I can see part of a table and some chairs. To our left, it opens up into a spacious living room. To the right is a small sitting room. It's empty.

Tyler checks the closet.

Nothing.

Monica is watching the hallway so I watch the stairs.

Tyler goes left into the living room. She stops so suddenly I bump into her and drop my bullet. I hear it thump into the thick carpet below.

A car passes outside causing its headlights to shine a narrow line through the drapes in the window that moves through the room. Five men stand there on the far side of the room, utterly still, arms at their sides except for the one holding a gun to Candace’s head. He’s ducked down so that all we see of his face is one gimlet eye. Each man is holding a pistol.

Candace’s eyes are wide with terror. She’s breathing hard and shaking.

The man who is holding her has his finger on the trigger.

“FBI,” says Tyler.

There’s no response. No movement.

Dark possibility radiates from the man, like he’s a black octopus with way too many tentacles searching for prey.

As I look at him, the blackness spikes, and, pushing hard, I fling a knife the moment before his hand flexes, pulling the trigger.

The gun doesn’t go off.

The man looks at it.

The blade of my knife is pinched between the hammer and the firing pin.

Tyler shoots him in the head.