Jo started toward the sound, adrenaline spikingthrough her as she and Bridget weaved through the trees, the meows growing louder, more desperate. But before they could get too far, the rumble of an engine caught Jo’s ear. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the familiar White Rock Police Station Tahoe pulling into the driveway. Sam.
The moment Sam stepped out of the truck, Lucy leaped out behind him, her tail wagging but her ears pricked up, alert. Sam gave Jo a nod, and she waved him over, her heart pounding with the urgency of the situation.
“We heard him,” Jo said as Sam jogged over. “He’s close.”
Sam glanced down at Lucy, who was already sniffing the air, her keen senses immediately kicking in. “Lucy can help. Let’s follow her lead.”
Without waiting for further instruction, Lucy’s nose hit the ground, and she moved swiftly into the trees, her body low and her focus sharp. Jo felt a flicker of hope as they fell in behind her, Lucy guiding them deeper into the woods.
The meows were louder now, more frequent but still distant, as if they were coming from somewhere hidden. Jo’s stomach twisted with the thought of what they might find—what could have happened to Pickles.
Lucy moved with purpose, weaving between treesand over fallen branches, her nose pressed close to the ground. Her ears flicked with every sound, and Jo knew the dog was picking up something.
“Good girl, Lucy,” Sam muttered as they followed her deeper into the woods. “Keep going.”
Bridget’s face was tense, her eyes darting from tree to tree as the meows grew louder, more insistent. Jo could feel the tightness in her chest as they pressed on, her mind racing with possibilities—none of them good.
Lucy suddenly stopped, her head jerking toward an old, rotted tree just ahead. Jo saw it before the others did—the mouth of a well, its crumbling stone rim barely visible beneath layers of overgrown moss and vines.
The meows echoed up from the darkness, faint but unmistakable.
“Oh no,” Bridget whispered, her voice trembling. “He’s down there.”
Jo rushed forward, her flashlight beam sweeping over the well’s edge as she knelt beside it. The dark hole yawned beneath her, and as she peered down, her breath caught in her throat.
There, huddled at the bottom, was Pickles—his fur matted, his eyes wide with terror. He let out another pathetic meow, his body trembling with fear.
“We need to get him out of there,” Jo said, her voice tight with urgency.
Sam was already moving, pulling out his phone to call for backup. “Stay calm. We’ll get him.”
But even as the relief of finding Pickles washed over her, Jo couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker was lurking just beneath the surface.
Had Pickles simply fallen into the well, or had someone thrown him in?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jo peered into the well at Pickles. The little cat looked terrified but seemed to be okay physically.
“Poor thing,” Bridget whispered, her voice tight with worry. “How are we going to get him out of there?”
The well was deeper than Jo had expected, though thankfully, it was dry. The stone walls stretched down at least twenty feet, their surfaces slick with years of moss and decay. Pickles crouched on a small patch of earth at the bottom, his fur matted with dirt. He looked up at Jo, letting out another soft meow, as if begging her to come down to get him.
“We’ll need a ladder,” Sam said, his voice tense. He was already stepping back, scanning the area for anything that could help.
“There’s one in my shed,” Jo said, pulling herself away from the edge of the well.
They hurried back toward the house, veering toward the old shed near the edge of the property. The structure was weathered, its roof sagging from years of neglect, but it was still standing.
Sam pushed the door open with a creak, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, the shed was filled with tools—rusted shovels, cracked flowerpots, and stacks of old wood. Jo’s eyes scanned the cluttered space until they landed on an old ladder, leaning against the far wall.
“Perfect,” Sam muttered, already grabbing it. He hefted the ladder over his shoulder with ease and turned back to Jo and Bridget. “This should do it.”
They rushed back to the well, the cold biting at their skin. Jo’s hands were shaking as she helped Sam set the ladder down into the well. It was almost too wide to fit, but thankfully, they managed to get it to the bottom.
Pickles hadn’t moved from his spot at the bottom, his eyes still locked on them.
“I’ll go,” Sam said, his voice firm as he stepped over the rim of the well onto the first rung. He glanced at Jo, his expression unreadable. “You ready up here?”