Chapter 9 - The Race Against the Fading Light
Elena didn't hesitate. With a burst of adrenaline, she sidestepped Miller and bolted across the lawn toward the open patio door.
"Hey!" Miller shouted, lunging forward, his heavy hand grabbing the sleeve of her beige shirt. Fabric tore with a sharp rip, but Elena threw her entire weight forward, breaking free from his grip and stumbling across the threshold into the warm kitchen.
"Clara, run upstairs!" Elena screamed, slamming the heavy sliding glass door shut and flipping the manual security lock into place just as Miller’s fist slammed against the glass with a sickening thud. The double-paned window shuddered under the impact, but held firm.
Miller stood outside on the patio, his face twisted in quiet rage, his dark eyes fixed on Elena through the smeared glass. He didn't yell or curse; he simply reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a sleek silver smartphone, and pressed a button before raising it to his ear.
Elena turned away from the door, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The house was dead silent.
"Clara?" she called out, hurrying down the hallway toward the small study at the end of the corridor. "Clara, where are you?"
"I'm in here, Mom," the girl’s voice drifted out from the cluttered room that had belonged to her grandfather.
Elena pushed the heavy oak door open. The room smelled faintly of old pipe tobacco, aged paper, and peppermint—the exact scent profile of her father’s everyday life. Clara was kneeling on the worn Oriental rug beside the old cast-iron radiator, her small fingers prying at a warped pine floorboard that had always squeaked whenever someone walked across it.
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"He said it's right under here," Clara whispered, pulling upward with all her might until the wooden plank gave way with a sharp, echoing snap.
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