Chapter 11 - The Creaking DoorThe brass handle slowly turned, rotating downwards with a faint, metallic click that echoed like a gunshot in the silent kitchen.
My breath caught in my throat. My hand inched toward the heavy ceramic coffee mug on the table, my knuckles whitening. The police had cleared the house, checking every perimeter room, yet here someone was—unfazed, unlocking the door as if they owned the place.
The door swung inward. A tall silhouette stepped out of the pouring rain and into the hallway light.
"Put the mug down, Christopher," a deep, gravelly voice echoed. "It won't do you any good against someone who actually knows who you really are."
The figure stepped fully into the light, shaking off a dark trench coat. It was an older man, perhaps in his late fifties, with sharp, aristocratic features and silver-streaked hair that looked uncannily familiar when I caught my reflection in the dark kitchen window.
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"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, standing up, the chair scraping sharply against the tile floor. "How did you get in here? The police just left!"
The man offered a grim, weary smile, pulling a leather wallet from his coat and flipping it open to reveal a badge and weathered credentials. "Special Agent Arthur Vance. And before you ask—yes, Christopher. I am your uncle. Your father’s younger brother."
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