Chapter 3 - The Blue FolderI reached Ava’s bedroom doorway just in time to see him standing in the middle of the room with the blue folder in his hand.
Pink curtains billowed behind him from the half-open window. Stuffed animals lay scattered across the floor like witnesses to a crime. Ava’s favorite lamp was broken, its yellow shade crushed beneath his boot.
The man looked up.
This time, he saw me.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then he smiled.
“There you are.”
I ran.
Not toward the stairs.
Toward the hallway closet.
He was faster than I expected, but I knew the house better. I slammed my shoulder into the closet door, grabbed the fire extinguisher Nathan had mocked me for buying, and spun around as the intruder reached me.
He lunged.
I sprayed him full in the face.
White foam exploded between us.
He cursed, stumbling backward, and the blue folder slipped from his hand. I grabbed it and sprinted down the hallway.
My bare feet skidded on the hardwood.
Behind me, he roared my name.
He knew my name.
Of course he knew my name.
My husband had given it to him.
I ran into the kitchen, shoved the folder under my sweater, and grabbed the only weapon within reach.
A cast-iron skillet.
The intruder came around the corner wiping foam from his eyes.
“You don’t understand what you’re in,” he said.
I backed toward the mudroom.
“I understand enough.”
“No,” he said, breathing hard. “You don’t. Your husband isn’t just hiding money.”
“Then what is he hiding?”
He laughed once.
“The fact that you were never supposed to survive this week.”
My hands tightened around the skillet.
Outside, red and blue lights flashed through the rain.
For one wild moment, hope burst through me.
Mrs. Bell had called the police.
The intruder saw the lights too.
His face changed.
Not fear.
Calculation.
He pulled something from inside his jacket.
A gun.
“Give me the folder.”
“No.”
“Claire,” he said, almost gently. “Your daughter is next door. Think very carefully.”
I stopped moving.
He had found the exact place to cut me open.
The sirens grew louder.
The intruder glanced toward the front windows.
That one glance saved me.
I swung the skillet with both hands.
It hit his wrist.
The gun fired into the ceiling.
I screamed.
He shouted and slammed into the island. The blue folder fell from under my sweater and skidded across the tile.
I dove for it.
He grabbed my ankle.
I kicked backward, catching his jaw. His teeth clicked together with a sound I would never forget.
Then the front door burst open.
“Police!”
The intruder released me and ran through the mudroom.
An officer entered the kitchen with her weapon drawn.
I crawled toward her, clutching the blue folder to my chest.
“My husband sent him,” I gasped. “My husband paid him.”
The officer looked at me like she had heard many impossible things in her career.
Then her eyes dropped to the folder.
On top was a printed contract.
My name was highlighted in yellow.
Claire Whitaker.
May you like
Under “required outcome,” someone had typed two words.
Permanent silence.
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