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

important right now. It’s my friends—the citizens of this weird-ass little town—who matter.

And one of them needs me right now.

I step on the gas, glad once again that Greg let me have the brand-new cruiser. The Dodge’s tires don’t even squeal as the car roars forward into the night.

Buildings begin to blur past. I throw the lights and siren on just so this moment matches the urgency I suddenly feel. Something is messing with people’s instincts here—mine included—but right now there’s something more important to solve.

“Clara,” I say to myself.

My only Silvertown friend lives in a neat little craftsman-style bungalow about a half mile outside town, one of many in a row, all built in the mid-1950s.

I pull up in front of her house and get out, leaving the engine running and the light bar strobing its brilliant blue-red flashes across the surrounding trees and homes.

Her place is as kitschy as they come. Flowers hang in pots all along the front porch, along with about twenty different wind chimes. They play their discordant songs as I approach. The harmonic notes just more than a whisper in the light breeze. The front door is closed now, but whether that’s because Clara returned or her boss shut it after his visit, I’m not sure.

I take a step toward the porch and stop myself. The revelations I had in the car are still bright in my mind, as is the conversation Kyle and I had. If some chemical on that rag last night, or knocking my head against the wall, has screwed up my brain somehow, I need a way to remind myself of this fact.

Once again I kick myself for not really listening to Doc when we stood in that clearing beside the dead hiker. He’d dropped another little nugget of wisdom there when he spoke of how a zookeeper can consciously override the most basic of human instincts, over time and with constant effort.

I’m short on time, but I have to do something, otherwise I’ll keep slipping into autopilot. There’s got to be some way to jolt my mind back on track. But what?

A simple solution comes to me. Before heading up to the house I move around to the passenger side of the cruiser and grab a black permanent marker from the glove box. Cap between my lips, I write on the back of my hand in thick black letters:

YOU NEED HELP

I underline help just to hammer the point home. With any luck, seeing this every few minutes will override whatever’s causing me to go it alone.

Which, I realize as I’m walking up the front steps, is exactly what I’m doing right now. Relax, I tell myself. One thing at a time. You don’t even know if anything’s wrong yet. Clara could be inside right now, sipping wine and watching TV. This is nothing but a routine check until proven otherwise. If that happens, I’ll call someone. I’ll call Kyle.

I rap on the front door. “Clara?” I call out. Then again, louder, knocking with more urgency. I tap the doorbell a few times for good measure, and as I do so I can clearly read the large block letters written on my hand. The words you need help written there so boldly. Anyone else who sees it is going to think I’ve gone nuts, which only reinforces the message, so whatever.

The door remains closed, the house silent and dark. I walk around the side, switching on my flashlight as I go. The beam sweeps through uncovered windows, their frames casting crosses onto the interior walls. Out back Clara’s got two reclined lawn chairs and a high-end barbecue incongruous with the rest of her somewhat shabby belongings. String lights hang around the perimeter of the space—little white ghosts and orange pumpkins that I suspect have less to do with Halloween and more to do with Clara’s personality. Other than these, the whole place is dark.

I knock on the back door. Twice for good measure, calling out my presence per procedure. There’s no reply. No movement inside. No sound at all, save the wind chimes.

Back around the front, I try the handle and, sure enough, the door opens right up. Technically I’m not supposed to enter the premises, but then again “technically” and “Silvertown law enforcement” are often two separate things. One of the perks of a small-town force. Besides, Clara’s a friend and I’m concerned about her, and her boss did report her missing. Unofficially, sure, but there’s that “technically” line being a bit blurred again.

I step in.

Hardwood creaks underfoot. The place is warm and smells like vanilla incense. I check the kitchen, and nothing’s out of order. Stove’s off, no food left out as if she bailed midmeal. Just a normal, if quirky, kitchen.

On the table by the front door there’s a cradle for charging a cell phone, and it’s empty. There’s also no keys and no purse.

I tap the flashlight against my leg, thinking. Either Clara left just like any other day, or someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like that. Problem is, neither scenario would include leaving the front door wide open. And none of this explains why she didn’t show up for work.

On a whim I step outside and tug the door closed behind me, careful to make it a light gesture. I turn and watch the door as it swings shut. The motion is smooth. No creaks or resistance. Despite me barely pulling it, the door rotates all the way until it taps lightly against the frame, and I hear the latch click into place.

“There goes the wind theory,” I mutter. Next I try walking out and not tugging on the handle at all. I stand there for several minutes to see if it will move on its own—some doors do, if a breeze is circulating through the house. But here, nothing. The door stays right where I left it.

Okay, then. She takes her phone and purse, she turns off