Chapter 7 - The Pound on the Door
Hazel froze, her hand hovering just above the whistling kettle. The sharp, erratic rhythm of the knocking could only belong to one person. Mark. But how? She had dropped her tracked keychain down the heating duct, and Thomas had driven her via a winding, secluded route through the state park. She turned off the stove, the sudden silence in the kitchen amplifying the aggressive pounding at her front door.
“Hazel! I know you’re in there!” Mark’s muffled voice roared through the heavy oak. “Open this door right now or I’ll kick it off its hinges!”
Hazel walked slowly out of the kitchen, her footsteps soundless against the newly laid hardwood floors of the hallway. She approached the front door, looking through the narrow brass peephole. Mark stood alone on the porch, his dark blue sweater rumpled and stained with sweat, his eyes wild and bloodshot. There was no sign of Clara.
“You can’t hide out here forever, you old witch!” Mark screamed, slamming his fist against the wood once more. “You destroyed everything I built!”
Hazel placed her mouth close to the heavy wooden panel, her voice carrying through with calm, chilling precision.
“You built nothing, Mark. You merely rented an illusion using my life savings as collateral.”
Mark let out an incoherent roar of rage, throwing his entire body weight against the door. The heavy deadbolt held firm, but the frame rattled violently under the impact.
“Open the door! The police are already looking into those asset transfers, and if you don't sign the affidavit reversing the donation, I’m telling them you orchestrated the fraud with me!”
Hazel stepped back from the door, her micro-expressions shifting from calm to deeply analytical. He was bluffing, but desperation made men unpredictable and dangerous. She walked briskly to the living room window, pulling back the sheer white curtain just enough to see the driveway. Mark’s sedan was parked sideways across the gravel, blocking the exit. And walking up the treeline toward the side of the house was a second figure. Clara.
Clara looked utterly defeated, her long dark hair messy, her grey cardigan dragging in the dirt as she slipped through the open side gate leading directly to the back patio. They had tracked her down after all, utilizing some desperate digital workaround or following the town car from a distance.
Hazel did not panic. She reached into her beige cardigan pocket, pulled out a small vintage brass landline phone that was already plugged into the wall, and calmly dialed three digits.
“Emergency services,” a calm dispatcher’s voice answered immediately. “State your location.”
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“Yes,” Hazel said, her voice steady and clear. “I have an active trespasser attempting to break into my private residence at Pine Ridge Cottage. Send units immediately.”
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