Chapter 2 - The Stranger at the DoorMy heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. At seventy-one, I knew my physical limitations; if whoever was standing on my porch wanted to force their way inside, my arthritic hands and tired bones wouldn't stand a chance against them.
The doorbell rang. Once. Twice. Then a heavy, rhythmic knock that rattled the windowpanes.
“Grandma? Open up!”
It was Lily’s voice.
Panic surged through me. I hadn’t realized what time it was. The school bus had dropped them off early because of a faculty meeting.
I rushed to the front door, throwing it open to find Lily standing on the porch, clutching her backpack tightly to her chest. Behind her stood Ben and Molly, arguing over a plastic dinosaur, while Rosie clung to the hem of Lily's jacket.
"Grandma, why was the door locked twice?" Lily asked, her sharp, observant eyes scanning my pale face. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm just tired, sweetheart," I lied, forcing a smile that felt like cracked glass across my face. "Come on inside. Wash your hands. I'll make some snacks."
As the children scattered toward the kitchen, trailing backpacks and muddy shoes across the floor, I looked past them out toward the street. A black sedan idling by the curb pulled away slowly, its tinted windows refusing to reveal who sat inside.
They were watching the house. They had tracked the delivery truck.
That night, after the children had finally fallen asleep, I sat at the kitchen table under the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb. The heavy steel lockbox sat before me. Next to it lay the flash drive.
I didn't have a computer of my own—just an old smartphone with a cracked screen that I used for calling customers at the diner. But Lily had a school laptop plugged into the living room desk.
Sneaking into her room, I gently lifted the lightweight laptop from her study desk, careful not to wake her. Back at the kitchen table, I inserted the flash drive into the USB port.
A single folder appeared on the screen, encrypted with a password prompt. Below the text box was a hint written in Darla's handwriting: The day our family finally broke.
I stared at the screen, my mind racing through dates. The day my husband died? The day Darla graduated?
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No. Darla had always blamed herself for the car accident ten years ago that took her father's legs—an accident where she had been in the passenger seat. I typed in the date: 10-14-2016.
The progress bar spun once, twice, and then a video file popped up, auto-playing in high definition.
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