Chapter 2 - The BreachBefore I could reach the heavy oak front door, the brass handle jiggled violently. A second later, a loud rattle shook the frame as someone tried to force it open.
"It's locked!" Ethan’s voice hissed from the porch, muffled by the thick wood. "Why the hell is it locked?"
"Did you double-check the back door?" my mother’s voice snapped, sharp with rising panic. "Richard, use your key! You always kept a spare!"
"I am using the master key!" my father shouted back, the sound of metal scraping against metal grating through the lock. "It’s not turning! The deadbolt has been thrown from the inside!"
I looked back at Arthur. He hadn't moved an inch from his recliner. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out, picked up a heavy silver-handled cane leaning against the side table, and tapped it twice against the hardwood floor.
Clack. Clack.
The signal was clear. Let them in.
I walked down the small foyer and twisted the deadbolt. As I pulled the heavy door open, the icy Oregon wind rushed in, carrying the scent of damp earth and cheap perfume.
My family stumbled across the threshold in a chaotic bundle. My father led the pack, his face flushed and his tie askew. Behind him, my mother’s hair was windswept, her eyes wide with a manic mix of shock and residual anger. Ethan brought up the rear, his phone clutched in his hand like a weapon, the screen still glowing with an open banking app.
They froze the moment they saw me standing alone in the hallway.
"Where is he?" Richard demanded, pushing past me without a greeting, his eyes darting toward the living room. "Where’s the body?"
"There is no body, Dad," I said quietly, blocking his path.
Ethan shoved his way forward, his face red with fury. "Cut the crap, Claire! You pulled some sick, twisted prank on the phone! Where’s the lawyer? Where’s the safe?"
"Keep your voice down, boy," a voice boomed from the shadows of the living room.
May you like
The trio snapped their heads toward the parlor. There, sitting upright under the warm glow of the reading lamp, was Arthur Bennett. He wasn't lying pale on a hospital gurney. He wasn't draped in a shroud. He was holding a glass of amber whiskey, looking at them as if they were specimens under a microscope.
My mother let out a sharp, choked gasp and stumbled backward into the coat rack.
