Chapter 3 - The Stranger in the Living Room
The revelation hung in the freezing night air, poisoning the oxygen around Leo’s small lungs. Margaret stopped mid-sentence on the phone, her breath catching in her throat as the horrifying implication of a stranger inside the penthouse registered.
"A man, Leo? Are you sure?" Margaret’s voice was laced with sheer disbelief and escalating terror. "Could it be your father? Did he come home early?"
"No," Leo whispered, his wide, tear-filled eyes glued to the narrow gap in the velvet curtains. "Dad wears loafers. Those are big, dirty boots. Mud is falling off them onto the rug."
Inside the apartment, the muffled sound of a struggle resumed. It was not a loud fight, but rather the heavy, breathless grunts of someone moving furniture or wrestling with a heavy weight. A low, raspy voice muttered a curse, sending a shiver of dread through the boy. It definitely wasn't his father's voice, and it certainly wasn't Clara's refined, sharp tone.
"Leo, get away from the glass right now," Margaret commanded, her voice trembling with panic. "Hide behind the balcony storage chest. Do not let whoever is in there know you are outside."
Leo scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his light blue pajamas scraping against the cold concrete until his back hit the wooden storage box. He pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face partially in his arms while keeping the smartphone clutched tightly to his ear. The silence on the line was deafening, broken only by the faint, distant wail of a city siren far below.
Seconds stretched into an eternity. Then, the velvet curtain was yanked violently aside.
The bright, blinding light of the penthouse spilled out onto the balcony, forcing Leo to squint. Standing behind the glass door was Clara, but her appearance was profoundly altered. Her expensive off-the-shoulder sparkly gown was completely ruined, stained not just with orange juice, but with dark, smeared streaks of dirt. Her blonde hair was wild and disheveled, and her eyes were wide with a frantic, animalistic panic that Leo had never seen before.
Clara stared directly down at Leo through the glass, her chest heaving as if she had just sprinted a marathon. She didn't look angry anymore; she looked utterly terrified.
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And then, a large, heavy hand reached from off-camera, grabbing Clara roughly by the shoulder and jerking her violently out of sight.
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