The word dispatch hung in the muggy air, muffled by plastic and wet soil, but clear enough to freeze every soul on that porch.

I ducked beneath the heavy iron bar, the metal whistling inches past my ear and smashing into the wooden mantelpiece. Wood splinters flew everywhere.

I grabbed the heavy steel firebox off the floor and swung it with all my strength, slamming it into Mara’s knees. She shrieked, collapsing onto the hardwood floor as the iron poker clattered away.

Before she could recover, I scrambled out of the library and bolted down the dark hallway toward the kitchen.

“Marcus!” Mara screamed from behind me. “She’s in the house!”

The front door burst open. Marcus stood in the threshold, drenched in rain, his eyes bloodshot and unhinged. He held a heavy hunting knife in his hand.

“There’s nowhere left to run, Clara,” he panted, locking the door behind him. “You should have stayed in the mud. It was gentler than what’s coming.”

Suddenly, the door to the back porch creaked open. Evelyn walked inside, wearing a dark raincoat, holding a silver revolver. She looked calm, almost serene, as if she were stepping into a Sunday brunch rather than a murder scene.

“Enough theatricals, Marcus,” Evelyn said coldly, raising the gun and pointing it directly at my chest. “Put the knife away. We’re finishing this now. The police outside are already taken care of.”

My heart plummeted. I glanced out the kitchen window. The patrol car at the gate was silent, its driver slouched forward against the steering wheel.