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

Brad Pitt scouting film locations I could maybe—just maybe—understand. But Rob from Miami? No way. Something else is going on here.

Turning onto her road I start a mental tally of all the weird shit that’s happened in the last few days. No, scratch that, I have to go back to Johnny’s death if I’m going to do this right. Cause aside, there’s no denying Silvertown has seen a spate of crappy decisions from a cross section of inhabitants that, to me, have next to nothing in common. Spectacularly crappy. Lethally crappy, in at least two cases. Maybe three.

Johnny and his ill-advised nature walk.

The hiker and his lack of fear in the face of a wild bear.

The wannabe Hells Angel who tried to chloroform me and paid the price.

And now, Sally Jones.

There’s a part of me that wonders what might have happened to these two children if the nosy neighbor hadn’t called and reported their crying. The optimist in me thinks that surely Ms. Jones would have come to her senses before too long and rushed back to them. After everything else that’s happened, though, I’m not so sure.

At the house, Sally takes the two kids inside and then comes back for the stroller, which I’ve removed from the trunk for her.

She thanks me, pushing the bulky thing into the back corner of her garage. Then she gives me a small wave of goodbye.

Instead of heading back inside to her children, though, Sally starts to walk off into her yard. Fetching a toy? Turning on a sprinkler? I wait to see. She just keeps walking.

She’s a hundred feet away when I finally call out to her.

“Sally? Where are you going?”

“The neighbors. I figure I should apologize for the worry I caused.”

“And you’re leaving the kids alone inside while you do that?”

I’m too far to see her expression clearly, but her sudden gasp has “oops” written all over it. She runs back, one hand over her mouth.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I’m not thinking clearly.”

“I noticed.”

“Am I in trouble?” she asks shyly.

“You tell me,” I reply. “I still don’t understand what happened here.”

She places one hand on her forehead, checking her own temperature, then shifts her fingers to rub at one temple. “Maybe I’m coming down with something. I genuinely don’t know what I was thinking, Officer. Then or now.”

“Call me Mary, okay?”

“Of course.” She looks up at me, gauging my anger, perhaps. Then her eyes continue up, past me. She’s staring off into the distance. I turn to see what she’s looking at.

There, on the mountainside, in plain view of her house, is the new cell phone tower. A giant, poorly disguised artificial tree, beaming its signals right into her front window.

I shake my head, turning back to her.

“Look,” I say, “I’m not going to call CPS on you or anything, just… I don’t know, please be more mindful. I can’t stay here with you all day and help watch them.”

At this she looks truly baffled. “I’d never ask you to. I’ll call my aunt, or the kid who sits for me sometimes, so I can lie down.”

“That works,” I reply, wondering why I thought my help would be her first port of call. “I think… I think we’re all still a little off-kilter since Johnny…” I let that trail off.

Sally rests a hand on my forearm and gives me a little squeeze. “Thanks,” she says, and then she’s heading inside, already offering cheerful words about snack time to her kids.

As if nothing happened.

“I’ll check in on you later,” I mouth to Sally, stepping off her porch and onto the gravel driveway. Through the window she smiles and makes one of the girls wave cutely at me, as if all is right in the world.

Though I can’t quite bring myself to consider this situation resolved, I think I can safely file it as “under control.” At the car I glance up the hill toward the next house, just visible through some trees. Milton Skinner is watching from his big bay window, and raises one hand in a gesture of thanks. I nod to him, though I’m not sure he’ll see it from this distance, and make my way back to the road. At the end of the narrow lane where it meets the state route, I stop and consider my options. On a whim I turn left, away from town.

Sunlight streams through the tall trees, making the yellowing leaves on the alder trees practically glow like beacons amidst their evergreen neighbors. A sign indicates two more miles to Lake Forgotten. At the last intersection before the lake there’s a small coffee stand appropriately called Last Chance. I pull in for an americano and a blueberry muffin top.

Ten minutes later I’m parked in the small dirt lot near the lake, with a grand view of its placid waters and the two snow-dappled mountain peaks rising steeply above.

For all the grief its Two-Shits nickname earns, I have to admit the scene is quite beautiful. Even the section of rockslide just beyond the far shore, where part of the Two Sisters collapsed ages ago and slid all the way to the water’s edge, looks impressive.

There’s no one else around. I crack the window and sip my coffee, with only the crisp air and the sound of birds to keep me company. The muffin top is chocolate chip instead of the blueberry I’d asked for, but today doesn’t feel like a day to be picky, so I eat it with undiminished zeal.

Once the view wears off a bit, my mind starts to drift to last night. The man in my house, his rag-wrapped hand and those murderous eyes. What keeps returning to my mind, though, is what he’d said to me. I wish I could stop. I can’t stop. What was that all about? Can’t stop assaulting people in their homes? Can’t stop his urge to kill? He was too clumsy to