Chapter 6 - The Trap Shuts
The master bedroom was pitch black, save for the faint, silvery moonlight filtering through the heavy lace curtains of the bay windows.
Through the louvered slats of the linen closet, I watched Richard Sterling step fully across the threshold, his silhouette framed sharply against the pale light of the hallway. He held the heavy iron fire poker raised in a striking position, his body coiled with the predatory tension of a man preparing to deliver a lethal blow to a helpless victim.
"Surprise, Clara," Richard whispered into the empty darkness of the room, his voice dripping with venomous satisfaction.
He lunged forward toward the center of the massive king-sized bed, bringing the heavy iron poker down in a ferocious, sweeping arc meant to crush whoever—or whatever—was resting beneath the heavy quilted duvet.
THUD!
The iron poker buried itself deep into the mattress, tearing through the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets with a sharp, ripping sound.
Richard froze.
He didn't feel the yielding resistance of a human body beneath the fabric. Instead, his weapon struck hard, unyielding pillows arranged cunningly beneath the blankets to simulate the shape of a sleeping form.
"What the...?" Richard gasped, ripping the pillows aside with his bare hands, his eyes widening in sudden, panicked confusion as he stared at the empty, undisturbed mattress.
He spun around, his chest heaving, his gaze darting frantically toward the dark corners of the bedroom, the en-suite bathroom, and the walk-in closet.
"Clara! Where are you hiding?!" Richard roared, his polite, educational facade completely shattering into a mask of frantic, unmitigated rage. He charged out of the master bedroom and back into the upper hallway, brandishing the iron fire poker like a madman. "You can't hide from me in this house! The doors are locked! You're trapped!"
My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage.
Through the lens of my hidden smartphone, I watched Richard storm down the hall toward the guest rooms, swinging the iron poker wildly against the walls and doors, screaming my name with unhinged fury. Every second he spent tearing the rest of the house apart was a second bought with Jessica’s unconscious sacrifice and my own calculated nerve.
Suddenly, a loud, shrill chime echoed through the quiet night air from downstairs.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Richard froze mid-stride outside the guest room door, his head snapping sharply toward the grand staircase.
Someone was ringing the front doorbell downstairs. At 1:15 AM. In the middle of a torrential downpour.
"Who the hell is that?" Richard hissed to himself, his face twisting into a mask of paranoid terror.
Heavy, frantic pounding followed the doorbell, rattling the heavy oak front door on its hinges. Then, a familiar, authoritative voice boomed up from the entryway, cutting through the silence of the house like a thunderclap.
"Clara?! Open the door! It's Arthur! I got home early!"
My breath caught in my throat.
May you like
Arthur. My husband. He had finished his conference in Chicago a day early, caught a redeye flight home, and arrived in the middle of a midnight nightmare.
Panic seized my chest. If Arthur walked through that front door right now, Richard would kill him, or worse, manipulate the situation into a bloody domestic tragedy with no survivors. I had to act. Right now.
