Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

lives a hundred yards from my porch and they are inside her house. They’ve been at it for a while, actually. I thought maybe she’d had a fall or something and they’re too young to know what to do, but if you saw her in town… I just… well, I thought I’d call it in.”

Suddenly his name registers in my head. Greg has ranted about him several times. The proverbial concerned citizen, calling in at least once a week to report something that, more often than not, should be ignored or at least handled by someone other than the police.

As far as I know he’s never once been right about something he’s phoned in, but I hesitate. Sally’s presence on the sidewalk, without her adorable twins, and with a stranger to boot, had been odd. “How long have they been crying?”

“An hour and a half. Maybe closer to two.”

“Okay. Thanks, Milton. I’ll check it out.”

“Do you want me to go over there and have a look?”

In my mind I picture Sally, home now, trying to feed two whining toddlers, and a creepy old dude peering in through the window.

“No,” I tell him, “I’m just a few minutes away. I’ll handle it. Stay put, though, in case I need a statement.”

“A statement?! Well, okay. Of course, Officer Whittaker! I’ll be here.”

I won’t need a statement, but concerned citizens do love it when they’re acknowledged. He sounds positively chuffed when he says goodbye and good luck, like he’s just ratted out some neo-Nazis to the FBI.

Sally Jones, I think, grabbing my belt. It’s easy to imagine how this will go. Your typical small-town quaint misunderstanding. Sally probably hired one of the local teens to watch her kids for a few hours so she could show an old friend around town, her only crime being that she neglected to inform Milton Skinner of her plans. And the babysitter, being a sixteen-year-old, was probably taking selfies while the kids ran wild. I’d bet money on it.

Before heading to Silver Glen Lane I take a quick circuit of downtown, hoping to spot Ms. Jones, but there’s no sign of the woman or the stranger she was with, so I head on up the mountain.

Silver Glen Lane is one of the last streets to intersect with Route 177 before the main road’s final winding stretch up to Lake Forgotten. It’s your typical narrow, curvy lane, cutting a path through two nearly solid walls of trees. Driveways splinter off here and there, most disappearing behind the old growth, the actual homes well back from the road. You don’t move up here to listen to the sound of cars driving by, that’s for sure.

Sally lives about halfway down. She’s one of the few single mothers in the area, and with twins to boot, but everything I know about her indicates she handles her situation with a natural deftness, exuding positivity all the way. The term “rockstar mom” unfortunately jumps into my head.

Sure enough, though, I can hear the wailing kiddos before I’m even out of the car. They sound absolutely awful. Hoarse from screaming, scared out of their wits. A chill runs through me as I pound on the front door.

“Ms. Jones? Hello?” I call out. “Silvertown Police. Open the door.”

No reply save the crying.

I try the handle, find it unlocked, and step inside. I can tell immediately just how wrong my theory was. There’s no babysitter here.

The twins are there in the front room, on the floor. One is sitting in a saggy diaper, bawling her eyes out. The smell of it hits me a moment later. The other is standing on the back of the couch, her hands against the large view window, as she tries to grasp the dangling handle of the window blinds. Her left arm is covered in dried blood, but she’s not crying. Not anymore, at least. From the way her face looks, I think that’s a recent development.

“Oh, children,” I say, going to them without hesitation. “It’s all right now. I’m here. I’ll find your mom, okay?”

After a quick search of the house to confirm there are no adults present—nor any inattentive teens for that matter—I spend the next half hour just calming the pair, and dressing a shallow cut on the climber’s left hand. In the kitchen I discover that a glass has fallen and shattered on the floor, which caused the injury, judging by the trail of blood droplets leading from there to the living room.

Soon enough I’ve got them seated in fresh diapers at the dining room table, munching on Goldfish crackers and sipping milk.

“Now what?” I ask the two kids. They both ignore the question, content with their snack.

I can’t think of what to do except wait for Sally Jones to return. It’s not like I can leave them here while I go looking for her.

Although…

I search the woman’s garage and find what I need. Two car seats, stuffed in a corner. I install them in the back of the cruiser, and several minutes later I’ve got the children safely secured. The seats are designed for infants and way too small for the toddlers, but with some wrangling I make it work.

“The jig is up, kiddos. I’m taking you downtown,” I say to them. “Let’s hope this is the only time you ever find yourself in the back of a police car, huh?”

Both of them look on the verge of restarting their terrible cries.

From the house I grab their gigantic double stroller, spend five minutes figuring out how to fold it, and another five squeezing it into the Dodge’s trunk.

“Siren on?” I ask, starting the car.

One of the kiddos starts whimpering.

“No siren, then. You got it.”

I drive back to town. The twins, exhausted from their tearful morning alone, are lulled by the gently curving mountain road and instantly fall fast asleep.

It’s only when I pull up in front of the station that it hits me: What the hell am I going to do with two toddlers?

For several