Chapter 2 - The Second-Floor Light
Tom moved like a ghost across the frozen lawns, utilizing the thick hedges and deep shadows of the neighbor's blue spruce trees to close the distance. Even in his late sixties, the old detective retained the lean, predatory grace of a man who had spent decades hunting men who thought they were smarter than the law.
Evelyn watched him reach the edge of her property. He paused by the open side gate, his silhouette blending into the wrought iron. He didn't go in immediately. He crouched, inspected the latch, and then ran a gloved hand along the wooden frame.
A moment later, a low-intensity beam from a tactical flashlight cut through the darkness, sweeping the ground near the back porch before winking out.
Tom sidestepped toward the rear kitchen door. He tested the handle. It didn't budge. He moved to the wide bay window of the dining room, shielding his eyes with his hands to peer through the glass.
Inside the car, Evelyn’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every second stretched into an eternity. Why did Marcus want me away? The question pulsed in her veins. What was in Arthur’s safe? She knew the combination—it was her birthday followed by the year they bought the house. But Arthur had always insisted there was nothing of monetary value in there, only old title deeds, his father’s discharge papers, and a few sentimental letters from his mother.
Unless Arthur had lied. Or unless Marcus knew something she didn't.
Suddenly, Tom emerged from the shadow of the porch, his hand resting near his hip where a heavy-duty holster was concealed beneath his heavy wool coat. He jogged quietly back down the driveway, bypassing the front path and heading straight for Evelyn’s car.
He pulled the passenger door open and slid into the seat, bringing a rush of freezing air and the sharp scent of gun oil into the vehicle.
"Well?" Evelyn demanded, turning sharply.
"Front door is deadbolted from the inside. Kitchen door is secure. But the casement window to Arthur’s library on the second floor is unlatched," Tom said, his voice clipped and low. "And someone’s been up there, Evelyn. I saw a shadow move across the transom light before I reached the porch."
"Did you see who it was?"
"Too dark. But whoever it is, they aren't looking for jewelry or silver. They’re looking for something specific. They tore through the desk drawers; I could see the papers scattered from the ground outside."
Evelyn gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. "Marcus. It has to be Marcus or someone he hired. He was acting like a cornered animal all evening. He kept watching the clock. The phone call telling me to leave... it was timed. He needed me out of the house by a specific hour, or at least he thought he did, but whoever broke in must have miscalculated or gotten stuck."
Tom frowned, his weathered face knitting into deep lines of concentration. "If Marcus is involved in this, we need to know why. A man in Marcus’s position doesn't risk a federal felony—because breaking into a home like this is burglary, plain and simple—unless the stakes are catastrophic. What’s in that safe, Evelyn?"
"Nothing," she insisted, shaking her head. "Just papers. Old deeds, family history."
"People kill for old deeds, Evelyn. Especially if those deeds involve property or assets nobody knew existed." Tom turned to look at her, his eyes piercing in the dim dashboard light. "We can wait for the patrol unit I called. They’re ten minutes out. Or... we can go in through the back. I have my piece, and I know every creak in these old floorboards."
May you like
Evelyn looked past Tom toward the dark, imposing facade of her home. The amber light in the library had gone out.
"We don't wait," Evelyn said, her voice dropping an octave, carrying a cold, maternal fury that surprised even her. "That’s my house. And that’s my son’s mess. Let’s go."
