“I got it,” Jackson replies. One of the metal ladder legs bounces, rocks, and rolls onto the other leg so we almost fall again. Elliot lets out another cry of pain. Jackson balances his weight, steadying the ladder. It settles on the basement floor. I reach up, and with Jackson’s help, hoist Elliot onto the main floor above. He flops onto his back.

“Don’t pass out on me,” Jackson says, his face red. “We got to keep moving.”

Elliot nods.

“You ready to stand?” I ask.

Jackson grabs him around the middle, propping him up. We stumble forward, rushing through the rooms. “Beth?!” Jackson calls.

“Mrs. Green?!” I call out. “Mrs. Green was going outside. She’s probably outside,” I say.

We walk through the living room, and Elliot weakens, dropping most of his weight on my shoulder. My knees buckle. “Sorry,” he says. “Stepped on it wrong.”

I lean him into a chair. “Here. Rest a bit,” I say.

He grimaces. “Ow. Okay.” I help him elevate his leg on a nearby chair. Jackson goes into the next room. I stay with Elliot, keeping him company. Every now and then he shudders in pain. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Shouldn’t have led you down that hall. I had no idea.”

He catches his breath. Elliot studies me, his face somber. “I was serious back there. I do believe you.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “And now you can barely walk. Whatever this is. Whether I’m crazy or this is real. We’re in over our heads.”

Elliot tries to move his ankle, then grimaces. “You’re really good about that, huh?”

“What?”

“Shutting people out.”

“Better that than someone getting hurt,” I reply. “You probably think I’m the biggest weirdo that ever was.”

Elliot grins. “I’ve always thought you were a weirdo. It’s what I always dug about you.” Our eyes lock. I will myself not to look away, but then his eyes drift to the ground. “Hey. Look.”

Tiny droplets of blood glisten on the floor. They lead to the back door. I call out Jackson’s name and he comes running.

“What? What is it?” he asks.

When Jackson sees the blood, his face pales. He follows the splatter into the kitchen, and then to the door leading to the backyard. Wrapping my arms around Elliot, I help him stand, but Jackson’s too focused on the blood to wait for us. He opens the kitchen door into the backyard and reels back.

A shadowed, hulking man blocks Jackson’s path. I let out an involuntary yelp, but when the man steps into the light, it’s Manuel. His jacket is soaked through.

“Jesus,” Jackson says. After a moment, he recovers. “Beth. Have you seen her?” he asks Manuel. “Blonde? This high?”