Chapter 3 - Inside the Green House
The air inside the house on South Mason was thick, suffocating, and heavy with the metallic tang of fresh blood and cheap liquor. Vincent moved through the entryway like a ghost, his rubber-soled shoes making zero sound against the warped hardwood floorboards. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, his senses dialed to an unnatural degree of sharpness.
From the hallway, he could see into the small, cluttered living room. An overturned coffee table lay surrounded by shattered ceramic figurines and spilled takeout containers. But the room was empty. The source of the noise was coming from the upper level.
Vincent pivoted toward the narrow, creaking staircase that climbed into the darkness of the second floor. Each step was a minefield of potential noise. He tested every tread with the edge of his boot before shifting his full weight onto it, keeping his weapon raised and his eyes scanning the upper landing.
Halfway up, a fresh sound hit his ears—a low, ragged wheeze, followed by a heavy, drunken grunt.
“I told you to shut your damn mouth,” a gravelly, slurred male voice snarled from a room down the hall. “You think you can run your mouth to me? Look at you now. Useless piece of trash.”
Another dull, sickening thud echoed through the floorboards, accompanied by a soft, agonizing moan.
Vincent’s jaw tightened until the bone ached. He reached the top of the stairs, pressing his back flat against the peeling wallpaper of the hallway. There were three doors on this floor: two doors standing slightly ajar revealing empty, dark bedrooms, and one door at the very end of the hall that was fully closed. From beneath that door, a sliver of yellow light cut across the threadbare carpet.
And then, he heard it—a sound so quiet it would have been missed by anyone less focused. A soft, stifled sniffle coming from a narrow linen closet situated just outside the master bedroom.
Vincent glanced at the closet door. It was cracked open by barely an inch. Through that tiny vertical opening, a pair of wide, tear-soaked eyes stared directly out into the hallway.
Lily.
Vincent locked eyes with the little girl through the gap in the door. In the dim light, he could see her small face, pale as ash, her lower lip bitten raw to keep from crying out. She was huddled among stacks of mothballed blankets, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit so tightly her tiny knuckles were blue.
Vincent gave her a micro-gesture—a slow, deliberate nod accompanied by a slight drop of his chin. Stay quiet. I’ve got you.
The terror in the child's eyes flickered, replaced by a microscopic spark of bewildered hope. She slowly pressed her hand back over her mouth, retreating slightly into the darkness of the linen closet.
Vincent turned his attention back to the closed master bedroom door at the end of the hall. The abuser was inside, distracted by his victim, completely unaware that death had just walked up his stairs.
Vincent crept down the hall, his footsteps entirely silent. He positioned himself beside the doorframe, listening intently to the heavy dragging sounds and curses coming from within the room.
“Get up,” the man sneered inside. “Get up and look at me!”
Vincent didn't wait for another warning. He raised his right boot and delivered a devastating, piston-like kick squarely beside the brass doorknob.
CRACK!
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The wooden frame splintered instantly under the massive force, the door flying backward and smashing against the interior drywall with a deafening crash.
The man inside spun around in sheer, unadulterated shock, his eyes bulging as Vincent stepped across the threshold, his weapon leveled dead-center at the intruder's chest.
