Chapter Text
Mark looked down at the printed will in his hand. He scanned over the first few sentences of the second paragraph carefully. The key that had been delivered along with it was pressed against the meat of his palm, hidden beneath large curled fingers. It looked more like a motel key than anything — even the house number was printed on a plastic off-white diamond attached to the chain.
“I'm not sure. I don't even think this was for us, Mark. We don't know who John Kramer even is; maybe we should just go home,” Amanda's voice came from his left, where she stood biting her bottom lip raw as arms crossed her chest.
Hoffman stared at the letter again. He reread the opening lines.
‘Dear Misters Hoffman & Faulkner-Stanheight, and Miss Amanda Young,
The following will has named you three as sole inheritors of a rural property owned by the late John C. Kramer. A three-story home, a barn, and a well stand on the grounds. All are yours. As detailed in the will itself, what you do with them each will be left up to you. Enclosed is the key.’
“It names us both outright, Amanda, along with “Mr. Faulkner-Staneight.” I'm not sure what else you need.”
Adam crouched down in the gravel and pulled his camera from his hip, squinting against the viewfinder. “We must be a hundred yards off, about… but the house number is right. Jeeeezus Christ, would you look at this beauty,” he whistled, snapping a picture. Then two or three.
Mark's wide lips pursed and he folded the letter into the inside pocket of his coat, near the heart.
Amanda looked over her shoulder to the vehicle parked behind them. Something in the sweltering summer heat made it feel like bugs were crawling on her skin. Or under it. She hadn't had that feeling since her hard fall into drugs during high-school, and especially not since becoming sober. “If we're going, can we do it already? You dragged us all the way out here, Hoffman, so it better be fucking worth it.”
Her words were snappy and Adam grinned to himself at them. How he'd landed in a will with these two idiots, who seemed to always be at each other's throats, he didn't know. He just considered it his lucky day, he supposed. He stood and adjusted the shoulder strap so that his camera laid at his hip again. He left one hand over it — a subconscious thing. Never really want your shit stolen, right??
Amanda started off across the yard at an angry stride, ponytail swinging behind her. She did her best to dodge holes in the yard, her three-inch platform boots flattening deadened grass where she stepped. For someone her size, she made good time, too, nearly halfway across the yard before Mark and Adam chased after her. The porch echoed with the emptiness beneath it when she stepped up. Surprisingly, none of the porch wood had rotted, which was more than what could be said for the home itself.
Adam pressed his face and both palms up against the glass of a window that had accumulated a fine layer of dust. He closed one fist and used the side of his palm to smudge a clearer circle before pressing his nose to it again. “It's too dark in there. Like, a fucking black hole. I can't see shit!”
He stepped back and took steps across the porch to swing a leg over the railing and then jump over it. There was a thud as his Converse hit the grass. He disappeared around the side of the house, peering with curiosity around each corner it led him to. His shout could be heard from where Amanda stood, chewing her bottom lip raw again, in front of the door.
“Hey, I found the barn that letter talked about!”
Mark glanced at Amanda from where he'd been leaning towards the clear spot in the window, too. His voice was low. “If you're so unsure, why don't you keep an eye on Adam… I'm gonna go in.”
Amanda breathed in deeply and yanked both sleeves down over her palms. She stopped chewing at her bottom lip and lifted her chin, resolute. “If you find anything, try not to touch it, yeah? You're a real fucking pro at messing things up.”
His lip curled up in a scoff and then snarl, but Hoffman brushed it off. That was her, typical Amanda, and he listened to the stomping of her boots as they carried her off of the porch and down creaking steps again. She called after Adam. Mark didn't hear Adam's voice answer, but if he was honest, he didn't give a shit about the kid. Not really. They were only acquainted for one reason: because the dead man, John Kramer, had gifted them a house.
He opened his palm, which had been squeezed so tightly closed that the diamond of the tag had imprinted in the meat, and he looked at the key.
Adam pried the barn doors open the same time Hoffman turned it in the lock.