Chapter 5 - The Handprint in the Snow
Michael stared at the glass. The dark, smeary outline of a hand pressed against the exterior pane seemed to mock the warmth of the living room. It was not an old print; the melting edges of the frost around the fingers proved it had been made within the last hour, while he and Elena were arguing by the hearth.
"Who was it?" Michael demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp as he reached for the heavy iron fireplace poker leaning against the brick hearth.
"If I knew that, I wouldn't have tried to burn the album," Elena snapped, her composure fracturing completely as she rushed to the window and pulled the heavy velvet drapes shut with a violent yank. "Every picture in that book has coordinates written in invisible ink on the back. Locations of the offshore accounts, safety deposit boxes, and... and the cabin where David spent his last week."
Eleanor remained seated in her armchair, her expression turning grim as she watched the heavy drapes settle. "Someone is tying up loose ends, Michael. And they didn't come here to talk to Elena. They came for the key."
Before Michael could process the warning, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the front hallway. It was the sound of the deadbolt sliding open from the outside.
Lily screamed again, scrambling off the rug and hiding behind the sofa, her small hands clutching her pink dress.
Michael gripped the iron poker tighter, stepping into the dim corridor that led to the front door. "Stay back," he hissed over his shoulder to the two women.
The heavy oak front door creaked open slowly, letting in a bitter gust of winter wind that extinguished the candles on the hall table. Standing in the threshold was a tall figure shrouded in a dark, hooded trench coat. The silhouette was impossibly familiar, casting a long, distorted shadow across the hardwood floor.
"Hello, little brother," a raspy, scarred voice called out from the darkness of the doorway. "Did you really think a shallow grave in Vermont could keep me away forever?"
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Michael froze, the iron poker slipping from his numb fingers to crash loudly against the floorboards.
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