Chapter 9
The blood drained entirely from David’s face as he stared at the glowing screen of Clara’s phone. He grabbed the device from her hands, his thumb frantically scrolling up and down as if searching for a hidden trapdoor in the pixels.
“He’s here,” David breathed, his voice tight with sudden, suffocating terror. He spun toward the front door, his instincts screaming at him to bolt, to run, to pack their lives into the trunk of a car and vanish into the highway system. “Clara, get your coat. We’re leaving. Right now. Grab whatever bags you can carry.”
“David, stop!” Clara’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting through his panic-induced paralysis. She stood up from her chair, her eyes blazing with a fierce, resolute anger. “Running where? Look at the timestamp on that message. It was sent two minutes ago. He’s already watching our street. If we run out to the driveway now, we are walking right into an ambush.”
Eleanor remained seated at the table. She did not flinch, nor did she drop her gaze from the photograph on the screen. She reached up with a steady hand and touched the gold locket resting against her collarbone.
“Your father always ran from his mistakes, David,” Eleanor said softly, her voice carrying a chilling authority. “It’s why he spent his final years looking over his shoulder. Running only teaches your enemy that you are afraid. And fear is currency to a predator like Marcus Vance.”
“What do you suggest we do, Mother?” David demanded, his voice bordering on hysteria. “Sit here and wait for him to kick the front door down?”
“No,” Clara said, stepping between the two of them, taking control of the room with a sudden, undeniable gravity. “We don’t run, and we don’t wait to be attacked. We call the police. And more importantly, we call a lawyer who specializes in corporate extortion.”
David stared at his wife, stunned by her composure. For the first time since Eleanor had walked through their front door, the dynamic of the household shifted completely. Clara was no longer the blindsided wife kept in the dark; she was the anchor holding their sinking ship together.
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“Vance is playing a psychological game,” Clara continued, her fingers flying across her laptop keyboard as she pulled up local security contacts. “He wants us terrified, isolated, and making mistakes. If we involve law enforcement immediately, his little game of intimidation turns into a felony stalking and harassment case. He loses his deniability.”
Eleanor offered a faint, approving nod, her lips curving into a very small, grim smile. “Listen to your wife, David. She possesses the spine your father lost twenty years ago.”
