Turning her head left and right, she did a swift check of her surroundings, making sure there weren’t any people or cars passing by, then stopped in front of the Weston Manor. It wasn’t the best idea to come back after nightfall, but the house was supposed to be empty. All she wanted was to have a peek. There had to be answers inside.
“This is so idiotic,” Leila muttered as she took her earphones out and, without bothering to wind up the cord, tucked them into her pocket. Her shoes ripped at the ivy leaves as she lifted herself up the fence. She swung her legs over the top and jumped down.
After landing in a cat-like crouch, she held the position, waiting for any signs of movement. The house stood in complete darkness. Hedges and rose bushes were overgrown. With yellow knee-high grass, the lawn hadn’t been mowed in years. The only sound came from her heart’s rhythmic thumping in her ears.
She sucked in her breath and waded through the dewy grass until she reached the driveway. Trudging over tufts of weeds growing among the gravel, her feet followed the path up to the front door. She peered through the window at the side of the door, shining her flashlight into the foyer. The house was lifeless. Though she doubted it would be open, she gripped the cold handle and pushed and tugged. As suspected, it was locked.
Moments later, she bounded down the steps to the side entrance where she had broken in with Xander. The handle had been completely broken off. All it took was a slight nudge with her foot to open the door. Crouching, she studied the splinters of wood scattered all over the ground. She picked one up and rotated it in her hand to inspect it from all sides. The wood was already weathered and gray, so it had been sitting in the elements for some time.
She tossed the chip of wood back down and contemplated whether she should abort her mission and walk away. It wasn’t a good idea to waltz into an abandoned house in the first place, but one that had already been broken into? Not to mention no one else knew she was here.
But the damage had to be at least a few weeks old. She would be quick about it. In, look, and out. With a deep breath, she stepped inside.
She walked as quietly as she could through the halls, trying to ignore the cold sweat running down her temples. So far, she seemed to have the place to herself. She glanced in each room, most of which were empty but for white-draped furniture. Colorful graffiti covered every wall.
This place is even creepier than any tomb I’ve ever been in. She tried not to let her imagination run away with her, but her flashlight insisted on casting strange shapes and shadows from the sheet-covered furniture on the walls.
The room once full of antiquities was now empty. Not even the shelves that once held the precious items were in there.
Not daring to linger, she climbed the stairs to the upper levels of the manor until finally, she found what must have been an office. Hoping she’d be able to find something there—a journal or letters, perhaps—she stripped the white sheet off the desk and began opening the drawers. One was filled with pens and rubber bands and another with paper clips and push pins. The last one she opened was full of bills dating back fifteen years.
Leila wandered away from the desk and examined the bookshelf. All that remained on the shelves were various textbooks and travel guides. A picture frame lay face down on one shelf. Curious, she lifted it to see a photograph of the family of three. She guessed Mrs. Weston to be about forty-ish with her smooth shoulder-length hair. The son, David, was white-blond and probably around twelve years old. Mr. Weston stood behind him, one hand on the boy’s shoulder. While they were all smiling for the camera, their mouths were tight-lipped.
She set the frame back down and backed away from the shelves, hoping something else would catch her eye.
Her attention locked on a box on the top shelf. She climbed up the bottom two and stretched her arms, sliding it off with the tips of her fingers. She popped open the lid and wiped off the fine gray dust coating her fingers on her sweatshirt.
The box was full of old pictures and David’s report cards. After settling on the floor, legs crossed, she began sifting through the photographs. If she were lucky, maybe a letter or something would be tucked inside as well.
She held up a large photo, a group picture of the entire class from David’s tenth year. She examined the faces until she found the Weston boy but did a double take when another familiar face popped out at her.
“David and Xander were classmates,” she breathed. After a moment, she set the photo aside. This didn’t amount to much. After all, being classmates didn’t mean you were best friends. The next picture was of David, in his teens, smiling, with his arm over the shoulder of another boy.
Amir.
She flipped through more photographs and found two others with Amir in them. Either the Al-Rashid family had lived in England during that time, or Amir had been sent to England to go to school. In one of the pictures, Amir wore the same uniform. If he went to the same school as David and Xander, the chances were high they would have indeed known each other.
Could it be that simple? Leila scrutinized the pictures again and again. She dug into the box once more and removed another handful of photographs, her eyes skimming the images as she dropped the irrelevant ones back into the box. Thinking she’d found all her evidence, she tossed the last picture back down, hardly giving it a glance. But as she started to put the lid back on, she did a double take and picked up the photograph.
Xander stood alone in a grassy field, dressed in a soccer uniform, one foot perched on top of a ball, his hair ruffled and glossy from an afternoon of practice. He had the same mischievous glint in his eyes. The same impish half-smile. She assumed the Westons only had this picture because one of them took it. There was no doubt about it. It was as he said; he’d known the Westons and Amir. But not the way she thought he did. They had been school friends.
“Which maybe became a rivalry,” Leila mused aloud. It would be so much easier if she could talk to Xander about all of this. But why else would he have agreed with her dad to sneak into the Westons’ house? It was all too easy for him. After all, he had the code memorized. He’d have been able to quietly get in and out whenever he wanted. Instead, he had made a show. How was he to have known the full extent of the danger he was in?
Unable to tear her eyes away, her mouth curved into a smile as she continued to study the picture. She could hear his laugh, the sarcastic remarks.
The room filled with white light, cutting Leila’s daydream short. Her head shot up as the beams slid across the wall. The sound of car tires crunching on gravel came from outside. With trembling hands, she clicked off the flashlight.
She crept toward the window as a car door slammed and strained her neck to look without getting too close. Two men had gotten out of a black car, dressed in dark clothing with knit beanies on their heads. One of them glanced up and pointed toward her. The second man whipped his head around, his gaze anchored on her.
With a gasp, she ducked back down and scrambled over to the box, muttering expletives. Her heart pounded as she stuffed the photos into her bag, although she wasn’t yet sure what she was going to do with them. She closed the lid and shoved the box, letting it slide on its own across the floor toward the corner.
She lingered in the middle of the room, panting. How would she get out of here? The front door handle rattled as the men worked on opening it. Was there another way to get downstairs? If she took the stairs, she’d end up walking right by them.
With no time to waste, she left the room and tiptoed down the hall toward the stairs. The front door creaked open and slammed shut. She flattened herself against the wall and closed her eyes. If only she could teleport herself out of the house.
“Go in the basement and check there,” one of the men said from the bottom of the staircase. “I’ll look upstairs.”
Leila bit back a cry. She forced her eyes open and glanced around through her watery vision for a possible hiding place. Her gaze fell on the heavy curtain hanging by one of the hallway’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Seeing no other option, she dashed across the hall and tucked herself behind the billowing folds.
Her breath caught in her throat as footsteps arrived at the top of the stairs. The floorboards creaked softly with every step the man took, slowly making his way toward her hiding spot.
Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, she prayed, slipping a hand into her bag. She grasped the canister of pepper spray firmly in her sweaty palm.
The footsteps went past her and into the office.
Now was her chance. She flew out from behind the curtains and made a run for the stairs. She reached the edge when something snatched her hair from behind and yanked. She screamed, falling backward. She clawed at the hand holding her ponytail, her can of mace flying and clattering to the ground. It rolled away.
Her attacker dragged her to her feet by her hair and slammed her against the wall. He wedged his arm against her neck, trapping her. The man had switched the beanie for a black ski mask that completely covered his face.
“Don’t!” she pleaded, her voice shaking. “I didn’t know anyone lived here. The door was open, I swear. I didn’t touch anything.” Her heart beat wildly as she squirmed under his firm hold. What had her self-defense instructor shown her?
He breathed heavily through his nose, his silvery eyes searching hers. His jaw twitched and he shoved her toward the stairs. His arm came toward her, aiming to lock around her neck again. This time, desperate for survival, her self-defense lessons came back to her in a rush.
Leila threw an arm up, stopping him from enclosing his limb around her. She propelled her body back into him. He grunted, stumbling backward. She whirled around and her elbow struck him in the jaw with a thud. His head whipped to the side. Before he could recover, she jammed her knee between his legs then gave him a shove. He doubled over, groaning, and she flew down the stairs.
Without waiting to see if the man followed, she darted to the front door and yanked it open. She dashed onto the porch and stopped. Another man wearing a ski mask waited with his back to her, hands on his hips.
His shoulders jerked and he whirled around. Seizing the opportunity, she shoved him off the ledge into the overgrown boxwoods.
