Chapter 6 - Shadows on the Porch
I hit the damp sod hard, knocking the wind from my lungs in a ragged gasp. I rolled onto my back instantly, raising the heavy aluminum flashlight with both hands like a shield.
Marcus stood towering over me, the iron tire iron resting casually across his shoulder. His face was twisted into a triumphant, psychotic grin that revealed crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.
"Well, well, well," he sneered, taking a slow step forward. "The sweet little widow from next door. Poking her nose where it doesn't belong. I knew you were lying through your teeth the second you opened your mouth."
"Step back," I warned, struggling to my feet while keeping the heavy flashlight raised between us. "The police have already been dispatched. They'll be on this street in three minutes."
Marcus threw his head back and laughed—a dry, barking sound that lacked any trace of humor. "Three minutes? Lady, out here in the county, dispatch tells people whatever they want to hear to keep them calm. By the time some sleepy deputy rolls down this lane, I'll have my sister, the brats, and the title to the family land packed into that truck and across state lines."
"You're sick," I spat, circling slowly to keep my back toward the open space of the yard. "Those babies are your flesh and blood! Their father just died!"
"Their father was an idiot who thought he could leave a two-million-dollar estate entirely in my sister's name," Marcus hissed, his eyes flashing with raw, unchecked greed. "She was signing the conservatorship papers today. All of them. And then you had to go and meddle."
He lunged forward with terrifying speed, swinging the tire iron in a sweeping horizontal arc aimed straight at my shoulder.
My instincts took over. My late husband had spent thirty years teaching defensive tactics to forest rangers, and some of those drills were burned into my muscle memory. I ducked beneath the heavy swing, drove my weight forward, and brought the blunt aluminum end of the flashlight down onto his kneecap with all the force my sixty-year-old body could muster.
CRACK.
Marcus let out a guttural howl of pain, his left leg buckling beneath him as he crashed onto one knee in the wet mulch. The tire iron slipped from his fingers, clattering against the concrete foundation.
I didn't stay to admire my handiwork.
I spun on my heel and bolted toward my open garage door. I sprinted inside, slammed the heavy metal service door shut behind me, threw the deadbolt, and leaned against the wood, gasping for breath while my legs shook violently beneath me.
From the yard outside, Marcus’s voice rose in a furious, limping roar.
"You're dead, old woman! You hear me? You're dead!"
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I ran straight through the laundry room and into my kitchen. Reaching the front window, I looked out toward the tree-lined street.
In the far distance, over the crest of the hill, the faint wail of twin sirens finally broke through the quiet autumn morning.
