Chapter 8 - The Package on the PorchThe knock on our St. Paul apartment door came on a rainy Tuesday evening, just as Ava and I were sitting down on the living room floor with takeout Chinese food.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I paused, chopsticks halfway to my mouth. We didn't know anyone in this building yet, and we certainly hadn't ordered delivery using our new address.
"Expecting someone?" Ava asked, her brow furrowing in concern.
"No," I said, setting the food down and standing up.
I walked cautiously to the front door, looking through the peephole. The hallway was completely empty. The harsh fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting shadows against the blank walls. But resting directly on our welcome mat was a heavy, square cardboard box wrapped in brown shipping paper.
There was no return address.
Written across the top in sharp, familiar handwriting was a single line:
For the happy couple. Enjoy the view.
My blood ran cold.
I unlocked the deadbolt slowly, pulling the heavy wooden door open, and scanned the empty hallway one last time before dragging the box inside with my foot. I locked the door immediately, sliding the heavy security chain into place.
"Ben, what is that?" Ava asked, standing up from the floor, her voice trembling slightly.
"I don't know," I muttered, grabbing a pocket knife from the kitchen counter.
My hands didn't shake, but a heavy, dread-filled weight settled into the pit of my stomach. I sliced through the packing tape, peeled back the heavy cardboard flaps, and pushed aside layers of bubble wrap.
Inside rested a sleek, high-definition digital tablet and a manila envelope.
I reached in, picked up the tablet, and pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life instantly, playing a pre-recorded video file.
Ava stepped closer, her hand gripping my arm so tightly her fingernails dug into my skin.
I pressed play.
The screen illuminated our faces with a harsh, glaring white light.
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The video showed a dimly lit office room—not a prison cell, but a sleek, expensive private office. And sitting behind a mahogany desk, swirling a glass of scotch with a cast around his right wrist, was Nolan.
He looked directly into the camera lens, smiling a cold, terrifyingly calm smile.
