Chapter 6 - The Visitor at the Door
Friday afternoon brought a sharp, biting wind that whipped dead leaves across the front porch and rattled the double-paned windows of Sheryl’s living room.
Chloe was upstairs sleeping soundly for the first time in a month, while Lily rested in her bassinet. Fern was at the kitchen table finishing her algebra homework, her shoulders relaxed, the heavy dark cloud from earlier in the week finally lifting.
Then the doorbell rang.
It wasn't the polite, double-tap ring of the UPS driver. It was a heavy, aggressive pounding that vibrated through the frame.
Sheryl wiped her hands on a dish towel and walked to the front door. Through the frosted glass, she saw the broad outline of a man wearing a grease-stained jacket, his hands jammed deep into his pockets.
She pulled the door open six inches, keeping the security chain latched.
A man in his late forties with greasy brown hair and cold, suspicious eyes glared back at her. It was Chloe’s uncle, Ray. Sheryl had seen his picture once on an old family Facebook post before Chloe’s mother deleted her account.
"Open the damn door," Ray snarled, stepping closer to the threshold. "I know she’s in here."
"Who are you?" Sheryl asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register.
"You know damn well who I am. That little ungrateful brat stole my spare key and ran off with my niece—my responsibility. I want her back, and I want the social worker she’s been talking to."
"She’s not going anywhere with you," Sheryl said, her hand tightening around the edge of the door. "You abandoned a minor child and a newborn baby in a freezing shed. The police have already been notified of your address, Mr. Miller—or should I say, Mr. Davis."
Ray’s face flushed a mottled purple. He lunged forward, slamming his palm against the wood, trying to force the door open, but the heavy steel chain held fast.
"You can't keep her! She’s a ward of my household! I'll call the cops and say you're harboring a runaway!"
"Go ahead," a voice behind Sheryl said coldly.
Brian stepped into the hallway. He wasn't wearing his work jacket. In his right hand, he held his heavy iron pipe wrench, resting it casually against his thigh. Behind him stood Fern, holding her phone up with the video camera recording every second of Ray’s face.
"My buddy Jim Miller—the lawyer—is sitting in his office five minutes from here waiting for your call," Brian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "He’s got a stack of affidavits from the neighbors about the shouting matches coming from your garage, and a medical report on the baby’s malnutrition from the clinic where my ex-wife works."
Ray stared at Brian’s towering frame, then down at the iron wrench, and finally at the glowing red recording light on Fern’s phone.
The color drained from his face. He backed down the porch steps, stumbling once on the icy concrete.
"This isn't over," Ray spat, pointing a trembling finger. "You'll be hearing from my lawyer!"
"Tell him to call Jim," Brian called out as Ray sprinted toward a battered blue pickup parked at the curb, tires screeching as he threw the truck into reverse and tore down the street.
Sheryl let out a long breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She turned to Brian and reached out, gripping his free hand.
May you like
"Remind me never to get on your bad side," she whispered.
Brian grinned, his tough-guy exterior melting instantly as he looked down at her. "You survived twelve years of my cooking, Sheryl. You've already seen my worst side."
