Chapter 8
Eleanor grabbed Leo’s shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of his torn jacket. The cold night air seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second. “Who found us, Leo? Who was in that truck?”
Before Leo could answer, the engine of the dark pickup down the street rumbled to life, the low, throaty exhaust note vibrating through the quiet suburban night. The headlights flickered on, casting twin beams of blinding white light directly down Elmwood Drive, pinning Eleanor, Julian, and Leo in their harsh glare.
“Get inside! Now!” Eleanor commanded, her voice dropping all maternal softness, replaced by an iron command that startled even Julian.
She shoved the heavy front door open, practically herding both boys into the warm, brightly lit foyer of their home before slamming the heavy oak door shut and throwing the deadbolt. The safety of the interior—the gleaming hardwood floors, the framed family portraits on the walls, the scent of lavender and old paper—felt suddenly flimsy, like a paper screen standing before a rising storm.
Leo backed away from the door, his chest heaving, his eyes darting frantically toward the windows as if bullets were about to pierce the glass. “They don't want witnesses. If they see you hiding me, they won't leave you alone.”
“Nobody is touching you in this house,” Eleanor said fiercely, dropping her purse onto the entryway table and pulling her beige suit jacket tighter around her shoulders. She turned to Julian, who was watching them with wide, terrified eyes. “Julian, take Leo upstairs to the guest bathroom. Get the medical kit from the cabinet. Clean those cuts and give him some of your old clothes. Move.”
Julian didn't hesitate. He grabbed Leo’s wrist—not with force, but with the instinctive trust of someone who had just shared a brush with death. “Come on, Leo. My room is down the hall. You’re safe here.”
As the two boys hurried up the grand wooden staircase, their footsteps echoing softly against the risers, Eleanor walked swiftly into the kitchen. She picked up her landline phone, her fingers punching in the emergency digits with practiced speed. But before the call could connect, the dial tone abruptly cut out, replaced by a harsh, hollow buzzing sound.
May you like
The phone lines were dead.
Eleanor froze, the receiver heavy in her hand. She walked to the kitchen window that overlooked the side yard, pulling the sheer curtain back an inch. Through the glass, she saw a shadow detach itself from the darkness near the fence line, moving with silent, practiced purpose toward the back patio door.
