Chapter 10 - The Hidden Frequency
The kitchen felt warmer, stripped of the oppressive chill that Evelyn’s presence had cast over every room for years. Sarah sat at the small breakfast nook, cradling a mug of simple tap water while Connor rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out a half-empty carton of orange juice and some leftover bread. The house around them was quiet—a natural, peaceful quiet, devoid of ticking clocks or hidden microphones.
"We need to change the locks," Connor said, leaning against the marble counter and taking a long swallow of juice. "Every single one of them. And hire a sweep team to check the walls for any old surveillance wires my mother might have installed during her paranoia phases."
Sarah nodded, her eyelids heavy with the sudden onset of profound exhaustion. The adrenaline was finally leaving her system, replaced by a deep, bone-weary ache. "Do you think she'll actually stay in custody, Connor? Women like Evelyn... they always seem to have a backup plan buried somewhere."
"Not this time," Connor replied firmly, walking over to wrap a warm blanket around Sarah’s shoulders. "The federal indictment covers twenty years of financial manipulation and voter suppression in the local magistrate's office. The judge assigned to her case is incorruptible. She's finished."
Just as Sarah leaned her head against Connor’s chest, letting her eyes close to the rhythmic beat of his heart, a sharp, metallic feedback loop hissed through the kitchen air.
Screeeech—
Both of them snapped upright. Connor swore under his breath, scanning the room for the source of the noise. The sound wasn't coming from the walls or the kitchen appliances. It was coming from the small cherry-wood console table out in the foyer—right where Connor had tossed his keys just ten minutes ago.
"Stay here," Connor whispered, his jaw tightening as he stepped cautiously toward the dining room archway.
Sarah clutched baby Lily tighter, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She watched as Connor approached the console table in the dim hallway. Resting beside his metal keyring was a small, military-grade tactical transceiver—a device neither of them had ever seen before, its tiny LED screen flashing a sequence of numbers in glowing green digits.
Connor picked it up with two fingers, his face draining of all color as the device spat out an automated audio playback through its external speaker.
A cold, synthesized voice filled the silent foyer, repeating a chilling message on an endless loop:
May you like
"Target secured. Estate compromise initiated. Phase two commencing in T-minus ten minutes."
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