Chapter 8

Anya’s truck was gone, and neither was mine. I wasn’t surprised.

Fear made my skin crawl from the first moment I laid eyes on the house. Everything was still. A strange, mortuary silence. I had never realized the outskirts of Anchorage were so peaceful. I liked that corner of Bear Valley because the forest was denser and closer to the mountains, because our closest neighbors, the Thompsons (the elderly couple who took care of Mirko in the mornings), lived two kilometers from us; but it was only then that I began to notice how quiet everything was. It gave me chills.

The air was so pure that it only smelled of gasoline and smoke from the combustion of the rental car engine, and of the lavender deodorant that hung from the rearview mirror.

I didn’t have a gun. I waited a moment in the car, observing.

Our house was like many others in the suburban Anchorage area: a large two-story, three-bedroom home with a spacious rustic kitchen and dining room, built of wood