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

the house. The hall on this side of the foyer is longer than the other section, but with fewer doors. I keep to the edge, gun gripped in both hands, pointed at the floor two paces in front of me. The first door I come to has no retrofitted dead bolt. Just a simple handle. I twist it and open it a few inches. Linens on shelves, only a foot deep. I push it closed and quietly let the handle go.

The next door opens into another bedroom, but unlike those on the other side of the house, this one is well furnished. Queen-size bed, a desk, dresser, art on the walls. I leave the lights off and check the window first, but all I can see are the vague shapes of trees, thick bushes below.

Inside the room are two doors. One leads to a well-appointed bathroom with a full walk-in shower. The other reveals a closet. Inside I find two pairs of shoes: leather dress shoes and a pair of Nike running shoes. These last I try. They’re absolutely huge on my feet, but that’s better than being too tight, I think. In a dresser drawer I find socks and pull three pairs on. Even with the extra padding I still have to pull hard to tie the laces tight enough. Walking in these feels ridiculous, though, like I’m wearing clown shoes. I take them off again, keeping one pair of socks. The shoes I put back where I found them, again hoping to keep my escape a secret as long as possible.

As I set the sneakers back down I spy a pair of boots pushed into the back of the closet. I’ve seen these boots before. Not mine, but familiar. Doc’s, I realize. The brand-new green Wellingtons he wore when he came to look at the hiker’s body. No wonder the sneakers were too big. Doc’s feet are big enough to make a basketball player jealous.

This is Doc’s room.

I glance around, looking at the space with fresh eyes. I check the desk first. It’s empty, unused. Doc’s treating this like a hotel room, I realize, and think back to his story about being at a conference. I bet he stood right here when he talked to me on the phone, the lying bastard.

The socks I’d found in the first dresser drawer I’d opened, so I move there next to search the rest. The second drawer is all undershirts. The third…

“Jackpot.”

I smile at the Volvo logo staring up at me, its chrome circle set in a black plastic key fob. There’s a silvery ring attached to it, to which three keys dangle, unlabeled. His own house? Maybe a PO box or a back fence? Doesn’t matter. One must be for the car and that’s all I care about right now. I set it atop the dresser and keep searching.

In the same drawer I find a small pad of paper, like a book for handwritten credit-card receipts where each page has a yellow carbon-copy backing. Roughly half of the pad has been used.

Across the top left are the letters RX, followed by “prescription.” And just below, the name and address for Dr. Frank Ryan. I flip it open and see page after page of scribbled orders, but it’s too dark to make out the details. I pocket this as well. Given what I’ve learned here, and what I’ve deduced about Doc’s methods, this pad could be crucial evidence.

My search complete, I pick up the keys again. A Volvo station wagon is no Ferrari, but the sleek red speedster is of no use to me sitting dormant in a driveway. Besides, knowing Doc, his wagon is likely fueled and definitely well maintained.

I just need to get to the garage, and that means going downstairs.

Unless…

I slip back into the hall after a quick look in each direction. I’ve heard nothing since crossing the living room walkway, and so far there’s been no commotion from Captain Tweaker’s absence. With any luck he was headed upstairs to get some sleep, and nobody will miss him for hours.

Instead of heading toward the stairs, I go right, deeper into the house, moving to the north side of the hallway. This will take me above the kitchen, I think, and I’m banking on there being another stairway, one for a housekeeper or live-in chef. Perhaps even a door leading out the side of the house instead of the back, and thus not perfectly framed by those massive living room windows.

A floorboard creaks beneath my foot and I freeze. It’s impossible to listen with the blood pounding in my ears.

I try for calm. Slow my breaths.

A muffled sound, ahead and below. Footsteps coming up what must be a back stairwell.

I duck inside a pitch-black room and ease the door closed behind me, holding the handle so there’s no click of the latch. Only seconds later the footsteps are in the hall just outside, growing louder.

My hand starts to shake from nerves. Only through sheer luck the door does not rattle in its frame.

The footsteps are at the door. They pass, continuing toward the front of the house, crossing the elevated walkway.

I breathe a sigh of relief, until I remember what awaits them. The room I was imprisoned in, where Captain Tweaker now lies. My time is running out.

I paw at the wall beside me until I find a light switch, and flip it on, half expecting to find myself in a room full of sleeping mercenaries on bunk beds. But it’s only a laundry room, long and narrow, with fancy metallic red appliances on the right and a shelf with baskets of clothing on the left.

At the far end, opposite me, is a window with its blinds drawn. I rush toward it, but stop before I get there. A familiar color has caught my eye.

The blue fabric is piled in a basket, and when I lift it I see the gold reflection of a badge. Silvertown Police. My name,