The Prison Project [-Editing-]

15: Trey

15: Trey

It takes us two days to get to Phoenix, Arizona. Howie and I have had to lay low. Yesterday, while watching TV in our hotel room, we found out that there are searches going on for the both of us. Since then, I’ve cut my hair quite short, and Howie’s dyed his a lighter color, giving him a very typical beach boy look. Not the greatest disguises, but they’ll work for now. As long as we can throw people off, they’re good enough.

In Arizona, we quickly find a motel and get a room. Howie and I agree to take a short nap before going to get something to eat, and finally contacting the family whose child was taken.

“According to the file, she went missing two weeks ago,” Howie says as he sinks down onto his bed.

“That’s a week before Linley went missing.”

“These guys are all over the place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, first, they took my brother, and I live in Oklahoma. Then Linley went missing, and you guys live in California. And they were here, in Arizona. They’ve gotta have people all over the place, taking people.”

“I just want to figure out why they’re taking the people they have taken. What makes them so special?” I ask, laying down on my bed and yawning.

“I think the proper might be ‘what makes them not special?’ Scott’s just a little boy from a random house in a random neighborhood in a small town. Linley was just a high school student from a random house in a random neighborhood in a big city. I think they might just choose them at random.”

“But the question is: why?”

“I wish I knew,” Howie sighs.

Silence fills the air between us.

“Let’s just get some sleep,” I finally say. “We can think more on it after we talk to that family.”

“If we even get to talk to that family.”

“Yeah,” I reply quietly. “If.”

The two of us stay quiet, and in silent agreement, fall asleep to the sound of the whirring air conditioner.

• • •

Howie and I pull up to a small, indiscreet house in the middle of a random street near a school. We were able to get about three hours of sleep before finding somewhere to eat and finally, driving here. The house doesn’t look any different from the rest. Dark stucco, light trim, guacamole green door and windows. The front yard consists of dirt, a broken swing set, and an orange bicycle lying on its side near the porch.

Howie takes a deep breath and looks at me. “You ready?”

I nod. “I’m always ready.”

We make our way up to the house and knock on the door. A young girl opens the door. She’s got long, tangled, dark hair, tan skin, and dark almond eyes.

“Hello,” Howie says kindly, smiling at her. “Are your parents home?”

“Maria!” a woman calls, a thick Spanish accent attached to her voice. “¿Quien está en la puerta?”

“Dos muchachos, mamá. No sé quiénes son,” the little girl, Maria, replies.

“Sale de la puerta. Voy a hablar con ellos.”

Maria steps away from the door, and a woman takes her place. She’s wearing a yellow housedress, and her dark hair, which is streaked with silver, is pulled back into a loose braid. She has dark skin and eyes like her daughter, but her eyes are not light and happy like her daughter’s. They are full of worry and exhaustion, and faint circles hide underneath them.