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scratching eagerly at a wooden surface.
    My imagination?
    The house was old and always making strange noises. So perhaps it was just the foundation shifting, or some rodent rustling around in the walls. The very thought made her shudder. She hated rats.
    Scratch, scratch.
    Her heart quickened its pace as a cold chill spilled down her back.
    She remembered the Robert Frost poem she read in English class. She remembered the skeleton scratching its skull as it stood behind a locked door. She remembered the sound.
    Scratch, scratch.
    Biting her lower lip, she rose to her feet and moved cautiously out of her room and into the hall.
    Turning to the closed door at the end of the darkened corridor, she took a deep breath and waited.
    Scratch, scratch.
    She leapt back, holding a hand to her chest as her heart flapped around like a caged canary.
    Again she thought of the poem, remembered reading how the bones didn’t attempt to open the door but:
    “Halted helpless on the landing, / waiting for things to happen in their favor.”
    Another chill spread from Amy’s scalp to her shoulders.
    Shaking her head with a nervous shudder, she told herself that she was being ridiculous— that there was nothing threatening behind that door but a rat. A fat, filthy, disease-ridden rat. Nothing more.
    Still, she waited a little longer and listened.
    The small hairs on the back of her neck stiffened as she waited for another sound to come from behind the closed door.
    She waited with a body filled with cold tension. She felt her muscles grow taut and tight.
    The house phone rang.
    Amy’s heart leapt into her throat. “Freakin’ phone.” She stomped back into her room, snatching it from her desk. She viewed the Caller ID screen. “Crap.”
    It was Richard Barrett, her estranged grandfather. He was likely calling to wish her happy birthday as he did every year.
    But she didn’t answer. The bitter feelings that emerged whenever she thought about him kept her from doing so. Her father also didn’t want her speaking to him and she understood why— her grandfather was not to be trusted.
    She placed the phone back down on her desk and stared at it until it stopped ringing.
    The sound of the kitchen door slamming shut made her jump. “Amy,” her father called out. “Where you at?” Footsteps creaked along the hallway and stopped in front of her room.
    She turned to see him standing in the doorway and holding up a stylish black leather jacket.
    “Got somethin’ for ya,” he said, extending out to her.
    “Wow.” She slipped into the sleeves. “It’s awesome.”
    “Glad you like it.” He stood behind her as she modeled the jacket in front of the mirror. His massive physique filled the entire frame dwarfing her five-foot-three figure.
    Amy slid her hands down the folds. The leather felt nice and smooth. “I love it.”
    “And I love you.” Caressing her hair, he kissed the top of her head. “Damn, it’s amazing how much you favor your mother. Scary, almost.”
    She looked over her shoulder and smiled. This was how she wished it always was between them— warm and comforting. It was a shame he couldn’t have been like this when her mother was alive. It was a shame he couldn’t lay off the booze.
    “So,” she said, “ready to eat?”
    “Let me jump in the shower first,” Hank said.
    “Oh, wait. I think there’s a rat in Grandma’s old room.”
    Hank glanced down at her curiously. “Did you go in?”
    “Not if it’s a rat. No, sir.”
    “All right,” he smiled, giving her cheek a gentle pat. “I’ll check it out for you.”
     
     

Chapter 8
    Joe MacCallum was gone for the evening, so Patrick Keene dropped the stack of case files Joe had requested on his desk, and returned to his own office. He felt conflicted about what he had done an hour ago.
    After sifting through the archives at the Azalea County Sheriff’s Office in Mobile, he happened upon a manila folder titled HANK SNOW, CLASSIFIED WITNESS. It piqued his