Chapter Four: "why would i"

The seemingly incessant rain that attacked Crystal Lake an hour ago has finally eased up when I step onto the porch. The odd yet somehow comforting smell that comes with this sort of weather tickles my nose as I cut across the front of the house.

Before anything else, it's probably best to check under that tire swing.

The sky is bleak, rid of all the angry clouds that once shrouded the moon from sight. Its light guides me as I circle the house and open the latch to the gate that leads to the backyard.

The metal groans lowly when I move it to slip inside. Despite the stillness of the night, my heart dances in my chest, my senses alert and watching. Every muscle is tensed as though I'm in danger.

Maybe I am.

Who's to say that the danger that's following Spencer won't come to loom over my head? I'm probably digging my own grave by delving deeper despite his blatant warning.

The tire swing rocks back and forth, even though I don't feel any wind. Even in the darkness I can see the fraying rope is dangerously close to snapping.

The smell of wet soil is more prominent as I bend closer to the ground. The overturned dirt is clear as day in the moonlight.

My breath hitches. Someone has been digging here, and very recently. But then, I already knew that. Spencer's note is in my pocket right now.

Seeing the proof is a different story, though. It makes the reality of the situation more difficult to ignore.

If I found the note here, under the tire swing, that would've been one thing. But to find it in my takeout box from Coco's?

I'd have to be crazy to not look into it.

My fingers touch the dirt, curling into the earth. It feels cool, slippery as I shovel it out of the way. It cakes under my nails as I dig deeper and deeper.

My calf muscles start to burn from my squatted position, and I make the mistake of reaching up to wipe the sweat on my brow, thus adding soil to my forehead. Frustration is quick to work its way into my spirit as the minutes tick by.

I should have reached it by now.

But my fingers only caress more soil. It gets sturdier, more difficult to break through as I dig far below where our box should have been waiting. Come on.

My dirt-caked hands come up empty and I grind my teeth together, jaw locking. Who in this town has the nerve to meddle with a lost boy's final wishes?

Spencer and I have both been stolen from. Guilt nibbles my conscience as I realize that yet another injustice has been thrown upon my brother. Not only was I oblivious to and uncaring about his problems, but I couldn't even hold on to what I have left of him.

I wipe my palms on my jeans, and dirt that had been sticking to the sweat of my hands crumbles down into the grass. I don't bother covering the hole.

The waitress.

She gave me the takeout box. She could be responsible for the note.

I remember her sympathetic gazes and amazing customer service and I'm suddenly angry. She had no right.

My hand dips into my pocket, wrapping around mom's keys tightly. I don't think as I'm rounding the house and walking up the driveway to her car, and my intentions still aren't entirely clear when I'm twisting down an empty road, fingers locked around the steering wheel with an iron grip.

It's when I'm in the Coco's parking lot that I acknowledge my stupidity. The warm, orange glow that gleamed through the long windows earlier are off and the lot is deserted aside from my car.

I don't know what I was expecting at 1 am.

I guess I tend to act on impulse when it comes to the people I care about. Most times, the consequences are dire. But that's never stopped me.

With this in mind, I turn the car off and tiptoe to the permitter of the building. My attempt at stealth is probably comical as I break into a crouch-run and brace the dull brick walls once I've reached the diner.

My palms and back skim lightly over the brick as I shuffle behind the building. There's probably a back door.

My assumption is correct. On the backside of the building, right in the middle of the brick wall, is an old green door. The paint is chipping in some places, revealing the original silver coating beneath. My fingers wrap around the cool metal of the door handle and I pull.

It's open.

I hesitate.

What am I doing here?

It's late, and fog has begun to cloud my surroundings, mixing with the darkness, shifting and curling in a mysterious dance. The bustle of people and traces of exhaust in the air from old cars that usually intrude the area are absent, obviously, and suddenly the slice of moon that once guided me from above looks more like a wicked smile than a crescent.

I stand there, one hand curled around a rusty door handle that's damp to the touch, the other running through my dark hair. I almost laugh out loud at my idiocy. What exactly was I hoping to find by coming here? The waitress, whoever she is, is long gone by now.

"Elliot?"

I jump out of my skin, certainly not expecting to hear the voice of another human being here, especially when it's speaking my name.

I squint my eyes into the darkness that pools behind the green door. That's where the sound came from.

Someone's inside.

My brain screams at me to run, but my legs don't get the message. I catch a flurry of movement on the other side, and suddenly the door is being pushed outward towards me.

I stumble backwards, letting go of the doorknob and almost loosing my footing on the slick concrete of the back lot. The person from inside is out now, hands on my shoulders to steady me. My breath catches at the contact and I know I'm caught.

I train my eyes on my capturer as I try to make up some explanation as to why the heck I'm tugging at the door of a closed restaurant at 1 am, but the words get lodged in my throat when we make eye contact.

"It's you," I whisper.

Wisps of red strands have escaped her ponytail, illuminated like fire in the moonlight. Her cobalt eyes are wide in shock as she searches my face.

The waitress.

"What are you..." her voice trails off as her eyes devour my entire appearance, then shift to the night behind me. Her hold on my shoulders tightens. "You actually came?" Her gaze snaps back to mine.

The shock melts away, followed by a wave of anger. When her knowledge of my name is coupled with the obvious fact that she was expecting me, it's no surprise that suspicion clouds my thoughts.

"What's going on?" I hiss the words through my teeth.

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot upwards at my sudden aggression. "I was hoping you could tell me," she says.

The wind picks up, making the door behind her swing on its hinges. The groan sounds like dry, mocking laughter.

I shake her hands off of me, taking a few steps back. Her answer doesn't satisfy me at all.

"The note." It's all I can manage to pull from my jumbled mind and force past my lips. "Why did you have the note?"

She sighs, eyes drooping closed for a few seconds. She looks exhausted, and for some reason it annoys me.

"Come inside, Elliot," she says. She takes a step closer. "I'll explain everything."

I laugh. The sound is so mocking and mean that I'm shocked it comes from me, but I don't apologize. "Why would I go anywhere with you?"

She's not offended. Her face hardens and she turns back towards the door, a fire dancing in her eyes. "If you really want your answers, you'll come inside."

She disappears into the building.

And, after only a second's hesitation, I follow.