Chapter 3
The rhythmic scraping of boots on the welcome mat stopped abruptly, replaced by the dead, suffocating silence of a suburban afternoon holding its breath. Mark gripped the black TV remote like a weapon, his knuckles turning white as he crept toward the front window, careful to stay out of the direct line of sight. Through the warped glass, the driveway was entirely empty except for Sarah’s Honda, yet the scent of damp wool and stale pipe tobacco drifted faintly through the weather stripping around the door frame—a scent belonging exclusively to Arthur Vance.
Sarah pulled Leo back behind the kitchen island, her hands gripping the boy’s shoulders with a desperate intensity. "He’s outside," she mouthed, her eyes wide with a terror that transcended domestic friction. "Mark, the back window in the study. Is it locked?"
"I locked it this morning," Mark whispered back, his voice strained as he kept his eyes fixed on the doorknob. The brass handle slowly began to depress, descending with an agonizing, metallic click that signaled the latch had disengaged. Someone was using a master key, or worse, a duplicate made long before Mark had severed ties with the corporation.
The door swung inward six inches, revealing a sliver of the sunlit porch, but no one stood on the threshold. Instead, a heavy manila envelope lay flat on the welcome mat, weighted down by a familiar brass key stamped with the number four.
May you like
Mark exhaled slowly, lowering the remote as he approached the door. He checked the perimeter through the crack, then yanked it fully open. The porch was entirely deserted. Bending down, he picked up the envelope, feeling the hard outline of a flash drive sealed inside. When he turned back to show Sarah, Leo was standing directly behind him, holding up the brass key with a calm, knowing smile that made Mark’s blood run cold.
"Daddy forgot his room," Leo said softly, dropping the key onto the hardwood floor where it spun once before pointing directly toward the basement door.
