Chapter 4 - A Stranger at the Door
"I was just looking for an extra blanket for Lily," I said, keeping my voice steady as I stood up and faced my wife across the narrow hallway.
Clara’s eyes narrowed further, scanning my expression for any sign of deception before she slowly crossed her arms over her floral dress. "She doesn't need a blanket. She needs to learn that actions have consequences, and so do you for undermining me in front of our neighbors."
"Clara, she is four. Locking her in a bathroom isn't teaching a lesson, it's cruelty," I said, unable to keep the rising edge of anger completely out of my tone.
Before Clara could fire back another stinging retort, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the entryway, followed by a booming, familiar voice. "Hello? Is anyone home in this madhouse?" It was Marcus, my oldest friend and our local precinct's detective, who had brought his family to the party earlier.
Clara’s expression shifted instantly, transforming from severe anger to a warm, hosting smile so fast it gave me mental whiplash. She stepped past me without another word, her voice turning cheerful as she greeted Marcus in the living room. I stood in the hallway for a second longer, letting out a long, shaky breath before walking out to join them. Marcus was standing near the kitchen island with his young son, holding a half-empty paper cup of lemonade while looking somewhat out of place.
"Great party, Clara, despite the little punch incident," Marcus said with an easy laugh, clapping his hands together. "Though I actually came back inside because I left my car keys on your coffee table."
"Of course, Marcus, let me grab those for you," Clara said smoothly, moving toward the living room table where a collection of clutter sat.
As Clara turned her back, Marcus caught my eye and gave me a subtle, knowing nod that urged me toward the front door. I followed him out onto the porch, the warm evening breeze carrying the scent of cut grass and fading barbecue smoke. Once we were out of earshot from the open windows, Marcus’s casual demeanor vanished, replaced by a tense, professional focus.
"Ethan, we need to talk, and it’s not about the party," Marcus murmured, lowering his voice as he leaned against the wooden porch railing.
"About what? Marcus, you look like you're about to read me my rights," I forced a dry chuckle, though my stomach instantly dropped.
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"It’s about Clara’s father, Arthur, and those property records you asked me to look into last week," Marcus said, pulling a folded manila folder from his jacket pocket.
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