“Hello?” he said, softly, allowing the wooden beam to lodge against the edge of the door. Then, gun in one hand, raised, he gripped the handle to the shack and yanked it open without so much as a gasp of breath.

For a moment, he stood facing the darkness, Ilse peering over his shoulder. His breathing came soft, while Ilse gasped in ragged puffs. She missed a warm cup of tea, sitting on her couch, staring out at the lake and talking with her clients.

This was an entirely different sort of thing. She knew immediately she didn’t like it. Not at all.

But Sawyer didn’t seem bothered by the dark, shadowy shack. He stepped in without hesitating, his voice still clearing the dust and the way before him. “Hello?” he called, louder now. “FBI. We’re here to help!”

Someone had scattered those nails. Someone hadn’t wanted visitors. The weather vane… a crooked, bent rooster.

Ilse felt like a small, frightened girl again, trapped in a basement. She felt helpless, defenseless, protected only by a shadow and his gun. She frowned at this, feeling something stir in her chest. Memories played in her mind, but she pushed them aside, focusing on her own steady breathing.

She was no child anymore. No child at all. Then, if only to force herself to do something besides quake in her shoes, she called out, softly, “Samantha? Are you here?”

Both of them went quiet, just within the shack. No response. No sound. Not even the wind paid them mind this time.

The shack was empty. A small little loft pressed into the back of the cramped space. Strands of hay littered the loft, but a gaping hole in the floor of it gave a view of the weather-worn ceiling above. Around them, the walls were old, molding and in ill repair.

A few old, rusted barrels were scattered against one side of the shack. And a rider mower, red paint now turned orange and mealy, sat abandoned in the darkest corner.

A sudden beam of light shone from Sawyer, as he raised his phone and wielded it around the small area. The light illuminated the loft first, confirming it was empty. It moved to the barrels, and Sawyer stepped in.

For one horrible moment, as he peered into a barrel, Ilse expected the worst. But Sawyer moved on, glancing at her. “Empty,” he murmured. He shone the light behind the rusted rider mower in the darkest portion of the shack.

No movement. Nothing. Just cobwebs and dust and neglect.

With a soft, almost disappointed sigh, Sawyer lowered his weapon, reholstering it and pulling out his radio. “Faber,” he said, pressing the speaker. “Hear me?”

A crackling voice Ilse couldn’t make out replied.

“Any of you find anything?” Sawyer said. “The south farm’s a—” He stopped, frowning.

Another crackling response came over the speaker, and Sawyer said, softly, “Hang on.” His eyes narrowed, fixated on the small little rider mower in the back of the shack.