Chapter 8 - The Return of the Past
The illusion of absolute safety shattered on a rainy Thursday afternoon three weeks later.
Harper was sitting at the wooden dining table in the Lincoln Park brownstone, working on her laptop—she had recently accepted a remote graphic design contract that Gideon had quietly funneled her way—when the front doorbell chimed.
It wasn't Gideon’s security detail. They had a specific, coded knock.
This was a sharp, persistent ringing from the front intercom downstairs.
Harper froze. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her breath catching in her throat.
The intercom buzzed again.
She pushed herself up from the chair, grabbing her wooden crutches and swinging her casted leg forward with practiced coordination. She made her way slowly to the front hallway and looked at the small video monitor mounted beside the door.
Her blood ran cold.
Standing on the front steps, soaked to the skin and shivering in a cheap denim jacket, was Tyler.
His right arm was locked in a heavy plaster cast, held up by a dirty sling. His face was a patchwork of purple bruises, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild as he stared directly into the security camera lens.
“Harper!” he screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria as he banged his good fist against the heavy oak door. “I know you’re in there! Open the door, you little bitch! You think you can ruin my life and hide behind your rich friends? I saw the car! I know you’re in this house!”
Harper backed away from the door, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped her crutches.
“Go away,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. “Please go away.”
“Open the door or I’ll kick it in!” Tyler roared, throwing his shoulder against the wood.
Harper reached into her pocket, her fingers trembling as she pulled out her phone. She didn't call 911. She opened her contacts, scrolled down to the single saved number that had no name attached to it—only a string of digits she had memorized by heart—and hit call.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Harper,” Gideon’s voice answered instantly, calm and sharp as a razor.
“Gideon,” she gasped, tears spilling over her lashes. “He’s here. Tyler is at the front door. He’s screaming. He’s trying to get in.”
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There was a fraction of a second of absolute silence on the other end of the line—a silence so cold it felt like a winter storm blowing through the phone.
“Don’t move from the kitchen,” Gideon said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, icy register. “Don’t go near the door. I’m three minutes away.”
