Chapter 2 - Shadows Across the Hardwood Floor
"Nobody move," Arthur whispered fiercely, his hand dropping away from Julian as his gaze snapped toward the entryway. The heavy front door swung inward with a slow, deliberate creak, revealing a tall figure silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sunlight. Clara gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth as the color drained entirely from her face, leaving her looking fragile and ghost-like in the modern kitchen light.
Julian clutched the brown envelope tighter, feeling the thick, cold lump of wax press firmly against his ribs through his thin white t-shirt. He watched his mother's eyes widen in terror, a look he had never seen in all his eight years of life. Arthur slowly stepped in front of the kitchen island, his broad shoulders tensing beneath his dark jacket as he braced himself for whoever was about to cross their threshold.
"Hello, Clara. Arthur," a smooth, gravelly voice echoed from the hallway, cutting through the silence like a razor blade. "I trust you received my little reminder by now."
A man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped into the kitchen light. He looked to be in his late forties, with sharp, calculating eyes and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He glanced down at Julian, a cold, knowing smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Ah, and the young courier is still holding onto it. Smart boy. He knows better than to throw away family history."
"You have no business being in this house, Marcus," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that Julian had never heard before. "We made our agreement twelve years ago. The slate was wiped clean."
"Slates like ours never really wipe clean, Arthur," Marcus replied smoothly, taking another step forward. His polished leather shoes clicked rhythmically against the hardwood floor. "They just gather dust until someone comes along with a damp cloth and exposes all the ugly stains underneath."
Clara finally found her voice, though it emerged as a ragged whisper. "What do you want from us, Marcus? We gave you everything we had back then. We walked away with nothing so we could raise our son in peace."
"Peace is an expensive commodity, Clara," Marcus said, his smile fading into a chillingly blank expression. He reached into his suit jacket, and Julian instinctively braced himself for the worst. Instead of a weapon, Marcus pulled out a folded photograph and tossed it onto the marble island.
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Julian glanced down at the image before Arthur could block his view. It was a picture of a house that looked almost identical to theirs, but it was in ruins, swallowed by thick dark smoke and surrounded by flashing red police lights. On the back of the photograph, written in bold red ink, were words that made Julian's stomach violently churn: YOUR TIME IS UP.
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