Chapter 2 - The Sound of Footsteps
Daniel’s boots clicked heavily against the kitchen floor, the sound echoing like a hammer strike inside my throbbing skull. I forced my eyes shut, keeping my breathing artificially slow and shallow, while my hand brushed against Noah’s jacket to make sure he remained motionless. A few feet away, Daniel paused. I could sense his gaze sweeping over our bodies, checking for any sign of life, any betrayal of our awakening.
"Still out," Daniel muttered to himself, his voice dripping with a casual, horrifying indifference that made bile rise in my throat.
He moved toward the counter, and I heard the faint rustle of plastic bags. He was cleaning up. He was gathering the remaining traces of the meal, intending to erase every single piece of physical evidence before emergency services or anyone else could discover what he had done. My hand instinctively pressed tighter against the hidden freezer bag tucked safely inside the waistband of my sweatpants beneath my shirt. That bag of poisoned food was our ticket to justice, our unassailable proof. If Daniel disposed of the rest of the cooking pots and leftovers, that single sample in my waistband might be the only thing standing between our survival and a covered-up murder.
"Almost over," Daniel whispered aloud, though whether he was trying to reassure himself or mocking our lifeless forms, I couldn't tell.
His footsteps drew closer again, stopping right beside my head. I caught the faint, nauseating scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of bleach. For one agonizing second, I thought he noticed my pulse throbbing frantically against my throat. I braced myself, my muscles locking up, ready to fight for my son’s life with my bare hands if he made a move to harm Noah further.
Instead, he crouched down, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my forehead. The gesture was so bizarrely tender, so utterly disconnected from the cold-blooded poisoner he truly was, that a wave of pure revulsion washed over me.
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"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Sarah," he lied smoothly into the empty air, standing back up and grabbing a trash bag from the floor.
The heavy front door of the garage creaked open and shut once more as he carried the first load away. The moment the latch clicked, I opened my eyes, grabbed Noah’s hand, and whispered, "Now."
