Hideout by Jack Heath (iphone ebook reader txt) 📕

He says this with both familiarity and disgust. I wonder how long he’s been a vegetarian.

‘Will the new cameras be here on Friday?’

‘Yes. Zara got the order in on time.’ He checks his watch. ‘I’m going to change the buckets in the slaughterhouse.’

He disappears out the back door. I put down my coffee, half-drunk. Time for some snooping around. Fred told me not to go upstairs. While he’s gone, I want to see what he’s storing up there.

I reach the staircase and put my hand on the bannister—then I hear a soft scuffle above.

I freeze. Donnie and Kyle have left, and Fred’s in the slaughterhouse, so it must be Zara or Cedric up there. I didn’t hear them go up, which probably means they didn’t want to be heard. I’m not the only one snooping.

I heard a creaking sound on Monday night, when I was sneaking around with a toothbrush. Could one of the Guards have been searching the attic then, too?

I want to know who it is, but I can’t go up there without them spotting me. I’ll have to stay close by and see who comes down.

I search Fred’s bedroom while I wait. I expect it to be monastic, given his Zen attitude, but it’s not. There’s a beanbag in the corner and a PlayStation next to a curved screen on his desk. When I wiggle the mouse, the screen lights up. It’s locked, but the background image is of a toddler with a gap-toothed grin. A young woman is pushing him on a swing, her face just out of frame. It looks like the photo was taken from a distance.

Under the desk there’s a paper shredder. I open it up. Unfortunately, it’s a cross-cut mechanism, not strip-cut. The container is full of little diamonds, rather than long strips I could have pieced together.

In the drawers I find some softcore porn and a few sticks of jerky. A guilty pleasure.

I take one. He won’t notice, or if he does, he won’t complain in front of all the vegetarians. As I unwrap it and stuff it into my mouth, I spot the most important thing in the room—a little wooden bowl on his bookshelf, filled with keys.

I recognise two of them from the front door and the slaughterhouse. There’s also a car key, presumably for the van. Donnie and Kyle have taken the pick-up, and apparently Fred’s key for it. The rest look like they might be for the padlocks on all the windows.

I chew the jerky thoughtfully. I can’t take any of them right now, but it’s useful to know where they are. I slip back out into the corridor. Listen for a moment. No one is coming down the stairs yet, so I head for Samson’s bedroom.

I’ve been here before, but this time I’m looking at it differently. A trained investigator learns to search for evidence that contradicts their theory rather than confirming it. When I saw Samson’s body, bullet hole in head, gun in hand, an impression formed immediately—suicide. So I started looking for signs of murder instead, and I found them. The look on his face, the lack of burns around the entry point, the absence of an exit wound despite the calibre of the gun.

This time, my theory is murder. So I start looking for signs of a suicide. The null hypothesis.

Samson was tidy, making the room easy to search. First, I look for a note. Nothing on his shelves, in his dresser, or fallen under his bed. I do find a key, though. Looks like it would fit the front and back door. I swipe it.

Most suicides don’t leave a note. Many of them think they have no one to write to. I came to this house planning to kill myself, and I didn’t leave anything for anybody. Still, it changes the probabilities.

Maybe he left a note on his phone or his computer. I scour the room.

Both are missing. Now that’s interesting. Could the murderer have taken them? I think I remember seeing a phone on the bedside table last time I was here, but maybe I’m wrong. I haven’t slept properly in two days. Haven’t eaten properly in a week.

I’ve always been crazy, but I can usually tell where my imagined world ends and reality begins. Now even that certainty is slipping out of reach.

I start searching for signs that Samson was mentally ill. Most depressed people don’t kill themselves, but most people who kill themselves are depressed. Samson has workout gear in his closet, well-worn. A reusable water bottle on his bedside table. The room is generally clean—no crumbs or wrappers or crumpled beer cans. No dust on the ukulele, either. It got a lot of use. All the signs point to Samson having a healthy lifestyle, which usually indicates a healthy mind.

In the dresser I find condoms and lubricant. Again, no dust, and the expiry dates are way into the future. Sexually active people are much less likely to be depressed.

Zara has been flirting with me, but I’ve seen signs that she and Fred are together. Kyle also seems interested in her. If she was sleeping with Samson as well, she’s quite the queen bee. But Samson wasn’t necessarily straight. He could have been in a relationship with anyone in this house.

Time to search Zara’s room. I slip back out into the corridor, listen at her door for a second, and turn the handle. It’s not locked. The door opens without a squeak. I’m reminded again of Zara’s footsteps, silent despite the high heels. For someone so eye-catching, she goes out of her way not to be heard.

I only saw a little of Zara’s room through the curtains last night—the same part the hiker must have seen, assuming it was him who left those tracks. The rest of it is a junk heap, with clothes