Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the House
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We pulled up to my suburban home twenty minutes later. The street was quiet, illuminated only by the warm glow of the yellow streetlights.
David pulled a heavy flashlight and a legal concealed carry pistol from under his driver's seat. "Stay behind me, Clara."
As we walked up the front steps, I noticed the front door was slightly ajar. The heavy oak frame had been splintered near the deadbolt.
"They're inside," David whispered.
He pushed the door open with his foot. The house was completely silent, but the smell of cheap aftershave—Evan’s signature cologne—hung thick in the air.
We moved quietly down the hallway toward my home office. The door was wide open.
Inside, the room had been destroyed. Books were ripped off the shelves, desk drawers were turned upside down on the rug, and the oil painting had been ripped off the wall, leaving the metal safe exposed.
The safe door swung open, completely empty.
"Everything's gone," I whispered, holding my breath. "Mark’s medals... the house deed... the physical bearer bonds."
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway behind us.
David spun around, raising his flashlight into the darkness.
Standing in the doorway of the linen closet was Peter. He was holding a black leather duffel bag, his eyes wild and bloodshot.
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"Put the bag down, Peter," David commanded, his flashlight beam locked onto Peter's face.
"You don't get it, David!" Peter screamed, his voice high-pitched and hysterical. "Evan owes two hundred grand to some dangerous people in Chicago! If he doesn't pay them by midnight, they aren't just coming for him—they're coming for the whole family!"
