Part 3 of 5
I didn’t sleep that night.
Every sound outside made me tense.
A branch against the gutter.
A car passing somewhere down the road.
The faint metallic rattle of the fence when the wind picked up.
I sat in the hallway between Lily’s bedroom and the front door with Buster pressed against my legs.
He wasn’t sleeping either.
Every few minutes, his ears lifted.
Then he would listen.
Watching.
Waiting.
I kept thinking about Tom.
The shovel.
The darkness.
The way he had stood outside facing my house.
Maybe there was an innocent explanation.
But after finding a concealed steel trap only hours earlier, innocence suddenly felt difficult to believe in.
By sunrise, fear had hardened into anger.
I was tired of wondering.
I needed answers.
At eight that morning, I made Lily breakfast and turned on her favorite cartoon.
Buster stayed inside with her.
Then I stepped outside.
Tom’s truck was in his driveway.
He was leaning over the open hood, wiping grease from his hands.
For a moment, I almost turned around.
Then I remembered him standing in the dark.
“Tom.”
He looked up sharply.
“Sarah.”
I stopped several feet away.
“I saw you last night.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Outside my house.”
I folded my arms.
“You were holding a shovel.”
Tom said nothing.
“You knew exactly what that trap was yesterday,” I continued. “Then I see you outside my window hours later. So either you explain what you were doing, or I call Officer Miller.”
Tom looked down at the ground.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then his shoulders dropped.
“I wasn’t watching your house.”
“It looked like you were.”
“Come here.”
“I’m fine where I am.”
Tom nodded slowly.
Then he pointed toward the fence separating our yards.
Fresh soil had been disturbed along the edge.
Several small holes had been dug beside the bushes.
“I was checking the ground,” he said.
“For what?”
He looked at me.
“More traps.”
My anger faltered.
“Why?”
Tom removed his baseball cap.
His face suddenly seemed much older.
“Because I’ve seen one before.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“Where?”
He looked toward the trees behind the neighborhood.
“Three years ago.”
His voice became quieter.
“My wife had just died.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“Cancer,” he continued. “After she was gone, the house was unbearable. Too quiet. Too empty.”
He swallowed.
“The only thing that kept me going was our Golden Retriever, Barnaby.”
I remembered seeing an old photograph inside Tom’s garage once.
A younger Tom.
A smiling woman.
A large golden dog between them.
“Barnaby got out one evening,” Tom said.
“I searched everywhere.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“Three days later, I found him near the retention pond.”
I already knew what he was going to say.
I didn’t want to hear it.
“His leg was caught in a steel snare.”
Tom looked down.
“Same kind as yesterday.”
I covered my mouth.
“Oh God.”
“He had struggled against it for hours.”
Tom stopped.
He didn’t need to explain anything more.
“I called the police,” he said. “Animal control came out. Everyone assumed it had been left by some idiot trapping wildlife.”
“You never believed that?”
He shook his head.
“Not after yesterday.”
I stared at him.
“What changed?”
“Barnaby disappeared from inside this neighborhood.”
Tom pointed toward the street.
“And yesterday another trap turns up inside a flowerbed where your dog regularly walks.”
My stomach tightened.
Then another memory surfaced.
“Becky’s cat.”
Tom looked at me.
“What?”
“She posted about him last month. Orange tabby. He disappeared.”
Tom nodded slowly.
“And there was a missing Beagle before you moved here.”
The pieces began connecting.
One missing pet could be an accident.
Two could be coincidence.
But Barnaby.
The cat.
The Beagle.
Buster.
“Someone has been doing this for years,” I whispered.
Tom looked at me grimly.
“That’s what I think.”
My eyes drifted toward the end of the cul-de-sac.
Marge Peterson’s immaculate house stood behind a row of perfectly trimmed hedges.
Everything about it looked controlled.
Perfect.
Untouchable.
“Marge hates dogs,” I said.
Tom gave a humorless laugh.
“Marge hates anything she can’t control.”
“You think she did this?”
“I think she knows more than she told the police.”
I remembered her reaction.
At first she had dismissed the trap as landscaping debris.
Then she had seemed genuinely horrified.
Was that fear?
Or fear of being caught?
“We should tell Officer Miller about Barnaby,” I said.
“I already did years ago.”
“Tell him again.”
“I will.”
Tom paused.
“But there’s something else.”
He glanced around before lowering his voice.
“Marge controls the HOA maintenance shed behind the clubhouse.”
“So?”
“All the landscaping equipment is stored there.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Mulch?”
“Same kind used in her flowerbeds.”
I stared at him.
“You think there could be traps in there?”
“I don’t know.”
Tom looked toward the clubhouse.
“But if someone has been buying equipment, wire, locks, or anything else connected to this, there might be records.”
I shook my head.
“We can’t just break into an HOA building.”
“I didn’t say we should.”
His expression told me he had absolutely considered it.
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“We watch.”
That sounded more reasonable.
At least at first.
Tom explained that the HOA was holding a meeting that evening.
Marge would be there.
Most of the board would be there.
The maintenance area behind the clubhouse would likely be empty.
“We don’t touch anything,” I said firmly.
“Fine.”
“We don’t break into anything.”
Tom hesitated.
“Fine.”
“Tom.”
“Fine.”
I didn’t fully trust that answer.
That evening, Becky agreed to stay with Lily while I walked with Tom toward the community center.
Buster remained home with them.
The closer we got, the more I regretted coming.
Cars filled the parking lot.
Through the windows, I could see Marge talking with several board members.
She looked completely normal.
Calm.
Polished.
Smiling.
Tom nudged me toward the side of the building.
We followed the darker path toward the maintenance area.
The shed stood near the tree line.
No windows.
Heavy doors.
A large padlock.
“We look around,” I whispered. “That’s all.”
Tom nodded.
Then something caught my attention.
Behind the shed was a large plastic trash container.
Its lid wasn’t completely closed.
A length of thick braided steel cable protruded from underneath it.
The same kind of cable I had seen attached to the trap beside Lily’s shoe.
“Tom.”
He followed my gaze.
Neither of us moved.
I stepped closer.
The cable disappeared beneath the lid.
Tom lifted it carefully.
Inside were discarded landscaping supplies.
Empty fertilizer bags.
Cut rope.
Plastic containers.
And beneath them…
another coil of steel cable.
Tom pulled it upward.
Attached to one end was a small metal tag.
A product number had been written across it.
“Take a picture,” he whispered.
I pulled out my phone.
Then I heard something behind us.
A door.
Opening.
Tom immediately lowered the cable.
We stepped behind the shed.
Footsteps crossed the grass.
Slow.
Unhurried.
They came closer.
I held my breath.
Someone stopped directly on the other side of the wooden wall.
Then I heard Marge’s voice.
“David?”
A man answered.
“Yeah?”
“Did you get rid of everything?”
My blood went cold.
There was a pause.
Then the man replied.
“Almost.”
Marge lowered her voice.
I could barely hear the next words.
But I heard enough.
“After what happened with that dog, we can’t leave anything here.”
Tom looked at me.
I was already recording.
The footsteps moved away.
For several seconds, neither of us dared breathe.
Then Tom leaned toward me.
“David is her son.”
I nodded.
My hands were shaking around the phone.
We finally had something.
Not proof of everything.
But enough to make the conversation with police very different.
Tom started toward the path.
“We leave now.”
I followed him.
We had taken only three steps when a bright flashlight suddenly switched on behind us.
The beam landed directly across our backs.
I froze.
A man’s voice came from the darkness.
“Looking for something?”
Tom slowly turned.
I did the same.
A man stood beside the maintenance shed.
Thirty-something.
Heavy work gloves.
Expressionless face.
David.
He looked from Tom to me.
Then his eyes dropped to the phone in my hand.
And the moment he realized I had been recording, his expression completely changed.