That was when a scream sounded from somewhere close. It was creepy enough to scare poor Seth half to death. We clung to each other like strips of Velcro, and for an unbearably tense moment, I heard only the croaking of frogs. It was followed by another tortured shout. Still sudden, desperate, and scary but slightly muffled this time.
“Madison, let’s go.”
“What about our reputations?” I said.
Seth gave me an exasperated glare, which I tend to get a lot. “You’re worried about our reputations when our lives are at stake?”
“Fine, let me turn up the volume, just in case we hear another scream.” As I groped for the recorder’s control button, he dragged me down the driveway. I saw what was ahead of us and stopped dead in my tracks. Seth wasn’t paying attention and stomped headlong into an outstretched arm. …show more content…
He grabbed Seth by the scruff of his collar and lifted him so that they were face-to-face.
From a distance, I didn’t like him. Up close, I liked him even less. A fuzzy mullet, full mustache, hardly any neck. His attire—cowboy boots and a large belt buckle like a rodeo bronc rider—was typical for the humdrum dwellers of Whodunit Hill, a suburb in Clandestine County.
Seth struggled, kicking and pummeling the air.
“This is private property,” the man said, stepping over a No Trespassing sign someone had pried from its post.
“Correct. And you’re impeding progress, sir,” I warned him. “We’re with the Deadwood Detective Agency and we’re following up on a
“Madison, let’s go.”
“What about our reputations?” I said.
Seth gave me an exasperated glare, which I tend to get a lot. “You’re worried about our reputations when our lives are at stake?”
“Fine, let me turn up the volume, just in case we hear another scream.” As I groped for the recorder’s control button, he dragged me down the driveway. I saw what was ahead of us and stopped dead in my tracks. Seth wasn’t paying attention and stomped headlong into an outstretched arm. …show more content…
He grabbed Seth by the scruff of his collar and lifted him so that they were face-to-face.
From a distance, I didn’t like him. Up close, I liked him even less. A fuzzy mullet, full mustache, hardly any neck. His attire—cowboy boots and a large belt buckle like a rodeo bronc rider—was typical for the humdrum dwellers of Whodunit Hill, a suburb in Clandestine County.
Seth struggled, kicking and pummeling the air.
“This is private property,” the man said, stepping over a No Trespassing sign someone had pried from its post.
“Correct. And you’re impeding progress, sir,” I warned him. “We’re with the Deadwood Detective Agency and we’re following up on a