Found and Lost by Amanda G. Stevens

few steps until they caught up.
    This street, Apple Lane, dead-ended into a main road a few hundred feet ahead. Clay had brought them in the back way. They hadn’t left the residential neighborhood, but a few of the houses on the left appeared to be used for businesses. Sweet Serenity Massage Therapy, read the sign in one front yard. The next, hung from the porch awning, read Debra’s Salon. Clay veered toward the final house, up a redbrick walkway to the door. A black-lettered whitewashed sign stretched above the doorway: J’s Little Country Store.
    The Christians met here?
    He knocked on the door, then glanced over his shoulder. His smile caught the streetlight. Right, because he thought he was helping them find the truth or something.
    Violet turned a circle in search of the house number. There, the mailbox: 5682 Apple Lane. She dug into her purse for the phone.
    The door cracked open, but no light shone from inside. A female whisper seeped into the night. “He prepares a table.”
    â€œBefore us,” Clay whispered back.
    â€œIn the presence.”
    â€œOf our enemies.”
    The door eased open further, still without spilling a bit of light. Clay slipped through the opening into the blackness, and Natalia followed him.
    Austin’s voice yelled in Violet’s head. “Do not go inside.”
    Khloe tossed a glance over her shoulder: Don’t leave me.
    â€œCome on in, Violet,” Clay whispered from inside.
    She had to. She scaled the two steps up into the black lair. She’d find a way to leave as soon as she sent the text: 5682 Apple Lane.
    The door sealed behind her, and she was lost in a cocoon of darkness and scent. This country store sold candles. Lots of them. A warm hand slid into hers.
    â€œDad says be careful not to bump into stuff.”
    Khloe tugged her along, and Violet followed, almost stepping on Khloe’s heels. They must have crossed the whole length of the house by now, or maybe the darkness made the seconds feel like minutes. Ahead of her, someone opened a door. She was tugged forward again, into a warmth that suggested this room was usually closed off from the air conditioning.
    â€œCareful—stairs,” Khloe said, a second before Violet would have pitched to her death. She gripped a wooden railing and descended one silent carpeted step at a time until Khloe’s heels clicked on tile.
    Someone flipped a switch, and a bare bulb overhead flooded the room with light. The basement was a storage room piled with boxes, some still sealed with packing tape, others with open flaps poking upward. People clustered, seven including her. Too many for the space in the center of the room, connected to the stairs by a narrow cleared path.
    â€œWelcome, Clay’s guests.” An older woman, fifty or so, beamed at them. “I’m Janelle.”
    Aunt Natalia stepped forward, prodded by decorum as always. “Natalia. It’s a pleasure to finally meet all of you.”
    Violet pulled her stare away from Natalia’s convincing smile. “I’m Violet.”
    â€œKhloe, with a K,” Khloe said.
    â€œSay, brother.” A young guy with dyed-black hair and an eyebrow piercing stepped forward. “Thought you only had one kid.”
    Clay laughed as if the guy had made a joke. As if he’d talked to this twenty-something man too many times to count … which he probably had. His rolling stride met the younger man halfway, and he shook the outstretched hand with that signature Uncle Clay, life-is-awesome grin. He was as comfortable as Violet had ever seen him anywhere.
    â€œViolet’s my adopted niece—Khloe’s best friend. I could practically claim her on my tax return.”
    Not much of an exaggeration, especially during the summer.
    â€œAha,” the man said. “Glad to have you all. I’m Phil, and my beautiful bride is Felice.”
    Felice couldn’t be more than a few years older than Violet.