The Trap by Steven Arntson

Author:Steven Arntson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

A couple streets over from Alan’s, on a block of new one-level homes, we hid our bikes in the bushes and hiked behind the houses. Each one had a back porch and screen door.

“This blue one,” said Helen, pointing. “This is him.”

“We should stop and think—” I began.

“Shush,” said Helen, “you’ll get us caught.” As if any trouble here was my fault. “He’s not home,” she said, scanning the street. “See his driveway? You know his car.”

McTavish drove a red Chevy, and Helen was right—it wasn’t there.

“He’s probably at practice,” I said.

We walked onto the back lawn and up to the porch. Helen climbed the steps like they were her own, turned the knob on the door, opened it . . . and then, for the first time in my life, I was trespassing in someone’s house.

I was scared, thinking we’d find McTavish standing right there. Maybe his car was at the shop, or maybe someone was borrowing it, or maybe he’d sold it . . . why had I not thought of any of this a minute ago? But as we stood in the silent living room, it became apparent that the house was empty.

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” I whispered.

“First time?” said Helen.

“Breaking into someone’s house,” I said.

“First time for you maybe,” said Helen.

“You’ve done this before?”

“Not here,” said Helen as she strode confidently forward, “but other places.”

“Helen, why?” I said. “It’s not right.”

“It’s interesting,” said Helen. “You get to see how people live. Did you know that the Murgutroys have—”

“Shush!” I said. “Don’t tell me.”

Helen snickered. “Okay, Mr. Proper, now help me find some clues.”

McTavish’s living room was a lot like ours. I hadn’t expected that from someone I now thought of as a supernatural kidnapper, but here was a pretty nice couch that was a similar color to ours, sitting in front of a TV that was the same brand we used to have. I found myself staring at the screen a little jealously.

“Henry, get cracking!” said Helen.

“Sorry,” I said, “it’s just that The Dead of Night is on right now.”

We started searching. It’s funny, I’ve read some detective stories where people break into places looking for clues. They always go to a back room and open a filing cabinet, and then say, “Here it is!” But where is that back room? McTavish did not appear to own a filing cabinet. While Helen breezed through the kitchen and disappeared down a hall, I examined the living room.

There were a few framed photos sitting on a corner table. One showed McTavish with his arm around a brown-haired woman. She was really big, kind of like him, but they didn’t look similar otherwise. I squinted at the photo. As far as I knew, McTavish wasn’t married.

I went into the kitchen, even though Helen had already been through it, and saw a calendar with notes in some of the squares, like “Rotary Club” or “Haircut” or “Baseball.” I saw Mr. Brody’s funeral written in for this past Tuesday, the date circled in red.

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