Chapter 3 - Whispers Through the WallWe didn't turn on the lights. Every step across the hardwood floor of the master bedroom felt like walking across thin ice over a frozen lake.
"Lily, tell me what else you saw," I whispered into her hair as I knelt beside her, pulling her fleece jacket over her purple pajamas. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely zip it up.
"I woke up because I was thirsty," she whispered back, her breath hot and quick against my ear. "I went down the hall to the kitchen. But the study door was open just a little bit. There was a light—not the lamp, just the blue light from his computer. I looked inside."
She gripped my sleeve, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.
"Adrian was standing by his desk. He had a black duffel bag open. He was putting stacks of money inside—lots of money, Mommy, banded together like in the movies. And his passport. And a gun."
The world tilted. A gun? Adrian didn't own a gun. We lived in a quiet, affluent suburb where the biggest crime was someone stealing packages off a porch. Why would my husband, a mild-mannered corporate consultant who spent his weekends gardening and playing catch with Lily, have a firearm and stacks of cash at dawn?
"Then he picked up his phone," Lily continued, her voice dropping to a terrified squeak. "He wasn't yelling, but his voice was cold. Like the ice cream freezer. He said, 'The insurance policy is finalized. Once the gas line in the basement triggers, the whole house will go up. No one will ever look twice at a tragic accident.' Then he laughed, Mommy. He laughed."
The sound of my daughter’s words echoed in my skull, drowning out the steady patter of rain against the window.
May you like
The gas line.
I stopped breathing. The faint, sweet smell of rotten eggs that I had dismissed as a damp basement odor yesterday afternoon suddenly slammed into my senses with terrifying clarity. It wasn't a leak. It was a fuse.
