Chapter 4 - Midnight Intruder
I froze, my blood turning to ice water.
Lucy reacted instantly. She slammed the laptop shut, grabbed my arm, and shoved me behind her back, her eyes darting toward the hallway where Sam and the little ones were sleeping.
"Stay here," she whispered, her voice rigid. She grabbed the heavy iron skillet from the stove—Chuck’s parting gift for home defense—and crept toward the living room.
I didn't stay behind. I crept right behind her, my heart hammering so loudly I was sure anyone outside could hear it.
The moon was bright, casting long, skeletal shadows through the front window. The glass wasn't shattered completely, but a neat, circular hole had been punched right through the latch near the new deadbolt Chuck had installed just hours earlier. A gloved hand reached inside, blindly feeling for the lock.
It wasn't a random burglar. A professional thief wouldn't target a house in a working-class neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else's business at midnight.
This was personal. This was Richard.
Before the gloved hand could turn the deadbolt, Lucy swung the iron skillet with all the pent-up fury of an eighteen-year-old girl who had spent two years holding a fractured family together against the world.
CLANG!
The heavy iron caught the wrist of the intruder as it broke through the glass. A sharp, muffled curse echoed from the porch, followed by the sound of heavy boots scrambling backward down the steps.
Lucy didn't hesitate. She threw the front door wide open, the new deadbolts sliding back with a sharp click, and stepped out onto the porch into the cool night air.
I peeked around her shoulder.
sprinting down the front yard toward a sleek black sedan parked half a block away with its headlights off. But as the car accelerated away into the darkness, something fluttered out of the intruder's jacket pocket and landed square on our welcome mat.
Lucy walked down the steps, knelt, and picked it up.
It wasn't a tool. It was a manila envelope.
May you like
She tore it open under the amber glow of the porch light. Inside was a single sheet of heavy, expensive parchment paper bearing the letterhead of Vance & Associates Legal Counsel, along with a glossy photograph of our mother, bound and gagged in the back of a motel room, and a handwritten note scrawled in black ink:
“Hand over the flash drive by noon tomorrow at the abandoned shipyard warehouse, or your mother pays the price for your little game. No cops. Just you and the drive.”
