To just go in there, tell them who I am, and demand that they tell me what they know about Nicholas’ life back then?

Why would they do that?

Besides, even if one of them is willing to speak to me, would he in front of his friends?

It feels like a terrible idea, but I don’t have a better one. I don’t know what is on the other side of that door and I can’t just wait out on the curb to ask people questions who come out. There’s probably more than one way in and out and I don’t want one of them warning the others that I’m coming.

I crack my knuckles trying to get some blood circulating in my frozen hands. It’s not particularly cold out here, but my anxiety is making my whole body shiver.

“Okay, no more waiting, it’s now or never,” I mumble under my breath.

The door to the clubhouse is so worn that the wood is soft to the touch, full of nicks and indentations from years of use. I turn the aging brass knob quickly out of fear that if I don’t then I won’t at all.

On the inside, the place looks like a bar. Dimly lit. No windows to speak of. A large bar top dominates the space and bottles of liquor are behind it.

I had assumed that the people would all be here, right behind the door, but there isn’t a soul around. I’m tempted to yell out, “Hello?” But then I stop myself. If I want to get answers, I need the element of surprise.

Unsure as to what to do now, I walk down the creaky floorboards toward the opening down the hallway. For all I know, Nicholas’ mom might have been lying to me the whole time.

Why not, right? And if she did, then where the hell am I?

“Who are you?” his deep voice comes directly behind me. I snap my head back but he already has my arms locked behind me.

“Who are you?” he hisses into my ear.

“I’m…Olive Kernes….I’m looking for Ricky.”

“Ricky who?” he asks, fighting his grip around my arms.

“Ricky Trundell.”

He loosens his grip and pushes me down the hallway.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I resist and try to push back at him.

He’s too strong to resist full-on, so instead I let my legs drop and my body go limp. Now, he’ll have to physically carry me if he wants me to go somewhere.

“What the hell?” the man asks, when his grip slips and I fall onto the floor. I scramble to my feet and pull the gun out of my pocket.

“Get the fuck away from me,” I say, holding it as steady as I can. Luckily, he takes me seriously and takes a step away from me.