Silo Boys

By Amy Brooke Odell

ONE DEAD, ONE MISSING, AND ONE WHO WAS NEVER THERE.

Nineteen-year-old Addy Marks has spent the past two years coming to grips with the tragic death of her friend Beau, the disappearance of her boyfriend, Mason, and the mistrust of their friend, Hunter.

 

After a local festival in their sleepy South Carolina town, three boys were seen heading toward an abandoned silo. When morning arrived, Beau's body was discovered, Mason was missing, and Hunter, claims he never went to the silo.

 

Two years later everything is turned upside down when Mason unexpectedly returns, but is murdered before Addy can meet with him.

 

Coping with her best friend's lies, uncovering the last standing Silo Boy's sealed alibi, and protecting her friends from harm, Addy must figure out what happened that night at the silo before anyone else loses their life.

 

As she unfolds the painful mystery, she realizes that everyone holds tight to their secrets and misdeeds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BLKDOG Publishing
• Release date: Feb 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215552711

Book preview

SILO

BOYS

AMY-BROOKE ODELL

Copyright © 2023 Amy-Brooke Odell.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-915490-12-4

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

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Other titles by Amy-Brooke Odell for your consideration:

Wendell

They Told Us It Was Haunted

For Brandon, many, many.

And for Dawson and Tuck, two gifts beyond my wildest dreams.

There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance.

- Gilbert Parker

1

T

he clock above ticks loudly in the quiet office. Two minutes left until lunch. The heat is ridiculous; it’s one of those stifling late April days in South Carolina that feels like it could be August. Not even a whisper of a breeze.

Sweat drips from my hair down the back of my neck as I rush to my car, daydreaming of dipping french fries in a cold strawberry shake. The jeep’s door is hot to the touch. I’m just about to get in when something catches my eye: an envelope tucked under my wiper blade. My breathing strains, and time seems to slow.

That boyish scrawl spells out Addy, my name, with the unmistakable boxy letter A. The sun-baked car becomes a lifeline for me to lean against in order to avoid falling over. Mason. It’s not possible. If he isn’t dead, then where has he been? He’s certainly not here; the parking lot is now bare except for my jeep. The envelope’s like fire in my hands, so I stuff it down into my tote bag and jump in the car. Frantically, my eyes make another quick sweep of the parking lot. If Mason really left this on my car, he wouldn’t stick around out in the open. The thought of him being alive is all I have wanted, but it’s more hope than I can allow myself right now.

Distracted and driving too fast, I swerve into a parking space at the Burger Basket and rush inside.

The bored lady at the register thrusts a tray into my hands, and I have no idea what I ordered. There’s an empty booth in the back, away from the kids’ play area, where it’s quiet.

Mindful breaths. Let it go. My therapist’s mantras are burned into my brain. She says I have survivor’s guilt, but I didn’t survive. My friends left—whether by disappearing into the air or by losing their lives, they left.

Just eat...calm down. My face flushes: I’m sure everyone around me senses that something is going on. A proud father is eating ice cream in the corner booth with a young boy in a baseball uniform, a group of mothers are trying to eat and rock their babies simultaneously, and several elderly people sit enjoying their lunch—but no one is paying any attention to me. Let it go. Still, I’m guarded; the police would love to see this note. Though I need to know what’s going on first. With shaking hands, I hold the envelope under the table and pull out a small scrap of paper.  

Addy, I need to talk to you. M.

That’s it. No phone number, no time to meet up or anything. My vision tunnels, so I try to relax. It wouldn’t do to faint right here in the middle of the afternoon rush. Soda flying, me lying unconscious with the note in my hand, cops and hospitals. No, that would be a nightmare. Mindful breaths. It’s been far too long to be a cruel prank, and this is definitely Mason’s handwriting. There isn’t any time to think about what to do, because my hour’s up. Let it go. How can I just go back to work with this bomb dropped on me?

Thankfully, there is only one tour group left today. The drive back to the office is short, and there’s already a crowd forming in the lobby. At least it’s a school club; they ask fewer questions than older tourists, and the chaperones are usually clamoring to get them finished and back on the bus.

It’s so important to keep it together. The people in this town know about me. They are full of pitiful, sympathetic looks. They act sincere, ask me how I’m doing, but you can see the intrigue sparkling in their eyes. After all, I am the girl who was friends with those boys at the silo. They thrive on the juicy details, and last thing I want is for anyone to find out that Mason is back before I can see him.

It’s impossible to concentrate on this tour, to not let anyone know that my world has just upended. I don’t think I am pulling it off well. Unfocused, I trip and babble my way through town, spouting out facts on autopilot until the kids and their supervisors finally leave.

The drive home is a blur, with too many questions for my brain to process at once. There’s no doubt the note is from Mason, but where has he been all this time? Does his mother know he’s back? Does Hunter? Finally, the thought that has been billowing under everything in my head surfaces: is he back because of what happened to Beau?

Emotions fight their way to the top of my heart: surprise that he is back, so much relief that he’s alive, and anger that no one has heard from him for the past two years. The radio is playing some loud rock song, so I turn the volume up and roll my windows down, forcing myself to stop thinking.

The jeep bumps along down my family’s twisty gravel driveway, kicking up rocks and lurching forward when I slam it in park and jump out. In a breathless panic, I called Charlie before leaving work to come over, but now I’m hoping to have a few minutes on the porch swing alone to collect myself before she gets here.  

The pounding in my chest slows as the sun dips below the trees. Dusk is the most beautiful, calming time of the day, and out here in the country I can sit on the swing and watch the sky morph into orange, peach, and then a deep navy blue and think every problem through. This, though, is much bigger than anything I have needed to think through in the past two years.  

Mason’s note stirs up so many memories—of simpler times before he disappeared, before Beau died. It was obvious that Mason was a package deal; Beau and Hunter were always going to be around. The three of them were so close, always doing something together—fishing, four-wheeling, or football. Their friendship was intoxicating. Everyone wanted to have a bond like they had, and everyone wanted to be near them. To watch them laugh with each other was something special.

Mason wasn’t just some cute high school boyfriend; he was everything. A vision of him at the homecoming dance sparks in my memory. The two of us moving together under those swirly lights in his black suit and my emerald drop-waist dress was magical. His chestnut eyes were always a weakness for me, and that night they were remarkable, shimmering with these tiny little cinnamon flecks. I can still see them. Mason told me he loved me for the first time that night, right there on the floor, kids slow dancing all around us. Low-hanging streamers brushed the top of his head. My heart seized at that one little freckle on his cheek that almost reached his eye when he smiled. He ruined me that night because I fell completely in love with him. A few short months later, he was gone—and I was left to wonder if he was a witness, a murderer, or worse.

Our old screen door creaks open and slams back, jerking me out of my thoughts. Suddenly, I’m not ready to talk about the note yet—not until I can fully process it. But I’ve already called Charlie. As much as I want to, I can’t keep this to myself; it’s too big to carry on my own.

Hey, you. Charlie hops on the swing with me, rocking it lightly with her foot.

Charlie Keller is gorgeous, and she knows it. She’s nineteen years old with sun-kissed golden skin and this long, blonde hair that she colors almost white to offset her eyes. Those mysterious, strange blue eyes that are nearly grey.

Hey. I hand her the note and brace myself for her reaction.  

She unfolds it, blowing a delicate wisp of hair out of her face, and reads the single line.

No! Mason’s...?

Alive. My eyes quickly scan the window beside her, making sure my parents aren’t still in the living room.

She’s quiet for a moment, thinking it through. Is this a joke? Do you think someone...?

Couldn’t be anyone else. I know that handwriting.

But Addy, this is... She shakes her head. It’s been two years; does this have something to do with Beau? The weight of it is hitting her, and she looks as shocked and confused as I am. I mean, trust me, I’m not saying I ever thought he did it, but why would he run? Why come back—why now?

A small wrinkle appears on the skin between her eyes, and I focus on it, because I don’t know how to respond. She’s asking these questions to the wrong person. I’d like to know. Two years is a long time.

You haven’t seen him yet? She lowers her voice even though it’s only the two of us out here.

Not yet. I got the note just a couple hours ago. A breeze blows through the night air, and I shiver, causing the chains on the swing to clang together.

But you’re going to? She hands the note back. I fold it up into a square, tucking it in the front pocket of my jeans.

Yeah.

Wow. She leans back into the swing, and I notice her face has gone pale in the moonlight.

Wow, indeed, I agree.

We sit there on the porch swing in silence for a while, rocking back and forth lazily, each in our own world. She then lets me rest my head on her shoulder as she runs her fingers comfortingly through my hair, as if I were her child. She knows more than most about what I’m going through.

Charlie and I have been friends since we were children, always together, always huddled up close, whispering in the corner. We didn’t even have other friends in elementary school; we didn’t want to talk to anyone but each other. Junior year, she started whispering with other girls. She was leaving me behind. Then I met Mason. When she started dating Beau, the four of us double-dated a lot, and since the three guys were like brothers, Hunter was the fifth wheel.

After Beau died, Charlie grew distant again, which I tried to understand. It was a traumatic time for all of us. It wasn’t me she was confiding in, but people change when they are afraid. Somehow, what happened in the silo pushed Charlie away from me and closer to Hunter. We’re picking things back up recently, and it feels nice to have her as a friend again. There is no one else I’d think about calling first with this.

We sit for a while, swinging and chatting. There’s some speculation and a few do you remember stories, but mostly we sit in quiet comfort until the last rays fade away and the sky darkens. Charlie squeezes my hand before hopping off the swing, her pretty flip-flops crunching the gravel as she walks to her car.

Honestly, I thought by now Mason would’ve shown up or found a way to let me know where and when he wants to talk, but he’s been radio silent and my nerves are getting the better of me. Patience has never been my thing, and after two years of torture, it’s time for some answers. There’s no way I can go to bed with so many questions, so I get back in the jeep and decide to go to the only place I think he could be.

The headlights sweep across the front of the property, casting it in an eerie glow. The silo sits at the back of an abandoned farm towering over the land. The owner, Mr. Anderson, took off a few years ago to spend time with his family up in Ohio and never came back to it. I assume he still owns it, because it hasn’t been touched by anyone other than us since we were in middle school—except for the morning that Beau was found.

With each bump in the long, winding road, nausea bubbles up. Hope, dread. Dead, alive. My brain chooses these anxious words as the soundtrack for the ride. Outside the old wire fence, I park and climb over. It had occurred to me that maybe Mason wanted me to meet him here after dark, since this is where we used to spend so many nights together. He’s nowhere in sight. I trudge over to the silo, aware of how loud my steps are and how utterly alone I am. There’s nothing but the hungry howls of coyotes in the distance to keep me company.

It’s my first time back to the silo since everything went horribly wrong, and all of the excitement and romance have long left the air. We built our relationships here, but now without my friends or Mason, it seems haunted...a shell of what it used to be. There are no more boisterous cheers from five friends racing up the metal stairs to play with the Ouija board, split a flask, or share their secrets. The secrets live by themselves in the silo now.

The looming brick structure that once filled me with such joy and adventure currently fills my bones with sadness. It looks so hollow. The farm grows quiet; I hum to myself, because if I stop making noise, I fear that I might hear the echoes of the boys yelling down at us from the window, our converse low-tops pounding up the stairs. The ghosts of who we used to be.

My eyes find the wooden window frame at the top of the silo, and the sight of it tears at my heart. There’s a rusted metal hook at the tip of the frame, but nothing has ever hung from it. God, how they made such a big deal of this window in the days following Beau’s death. As long as we had been hanging out here, there had never been a pane in that window. The police believed Beau might’ve been pushed, but they couldn’t prove it. There was never any broken glass to find, only Beau’s lifeless body lying on the ground below.

Our old meeting spot takes me by surprise; I almost miss the large, grey boulder that we used to throw our jackets on. It’s as good a place to wait as any, so I sit and rest my back up against it. It’s so dark out here, it’s unsettling.

Grateful for my penlight keychain, I pull my keys from my pocket. My finger fumbles over the button, clicking the light on and off a few times. The light is tiny, but it’s better than nothing.

I scoop up a few rocks off the ground. The small beam illuminates them, making me smile when I notice what they are. Pyrite—fool’s gold, my dad calls it. The rocks clink together in my hand, and I marvel at how they glitter in this light. It’s a shame that they’re so beautiful yet they aren’t real.

It was foolish to come out here alone, but desperation will cause a person to do all sorts of things. I let the rocks fall to the earth, dust off my hands on my jeans, and lean back, settling up against the hard surface of the rock. There is nothing to do now but wait. The memory of that terrible night rises in my thoughts—but this time, instead of shoving it down, I let it come. It’s not something that I like to relive; it’s intensely painful and it makes me wonder if I could’ve done anything to change the outcome. But tonight, with the promise of Mason back, it feels okay to remember.

Excitement was pulsing through the air; it was a balmy Sunday evening that my friends and I had been planning for. This community loves their annual Dogwood Festival. You could hear the bass of the music and smell the fried treats from blocks away. It was the night that set my entire life on a different course—really, all of our lives. It was also the night we lost Beau.

The festival is the biggest event in town, so I couldn’t wait to get there and meet up with Mason. Charlie came over to get ready together, like we’d done every year since we were little. I snuck in the kitchen to grab us some snacks and to try to steal my mom’s blackberry wine coolers out of the fridge. My dad was in the den watching the news, some depressing story about a teenager being run over a few towns away. He didn’t turn to see what I was getting, so I grabbed my pilfered bottles and a bag of chips and rushed back into my room, the thrill of it buzzing through my veins.

Charlie and I blasted music, drank our wine coolers, and changed outfits a dozen times. We were attempting to have fun, but we were really just getting on each other’s nerves. We were growing apart...I could feel it.

That skirt makes you look trashy. She smirked in the mirror as she hiked her own skirt up, leaning forward to apply yet another coat of purple mascara to her eyelashes.

I rolled my eyes, and she tried for another dig. I probably won’t make it back to spend the night. Chelsea wants to meet up later.

Her eyebrows furrowed, challenging, but I gave her no response. She knew how much I couldn’t stand Chelsea Pierce. The strung-out party girl who kept pills stashed in her locker. She was always hanging all over Mason and would throw herself at him whenever she could. She was starved for attention; I had no patience for her, and Charlie knew that.

Ready? I grabbed my purse and keys, then headed out.

Charlie and I were getting along better by the time we got to the festival. We shared a funnel cake, rode rides, took silly pictures in front of the Dogwood ‘97 sign, and giggled our way through the garden maze.

Mason, Hunter, and Beau were waiting for us at the end of the maze, and we sauntered up to them arm in arm, all of our arguments forgotten. The sight of them wiped the grins clean off our faces. Charlie tensed beside me; Beau was oh, so pale. The floodlight bouncing off his skin made him look hollow—ghoulish, even. He had a white sheen to his skin like he had been throwing up. When I went to kiss Mason, he barely brushed my cheek with his lips and squeezed my hand too hard, and with that, the carefree atmosphere of the festival faded away. I thought maybe he was angry at me for something, but the boys kept scowling at each other even though they pretended not to. They must have gotten into an argument. I shivered in my thin tank top, though the humidity was so thick you could touch it.

The