Chapter 3 - Footsteps In The Dark
I froze, pressing the Bible against my chest, scarcely daring to draw breath.
The front door had clicked shut. Soft, deliberate footsteps echoed across the hardwood of the foyer, heading toward the kitchen. Margaret was supposed to be at her attorney's office in Highland Park; Harris had assured me his plainclothes detectives were watching her car.
Then came another sound—a heavy, dragging step followed by the scrape of leather. It wasn't my mother’s brisk, light stride.
It was heavier. Slower.
I crept toward the bedroom door, peering through the crack of the hinges. The downstairs hallway light clicked on, throwing long, distorted shadows across the stairwell wall. A man stepped into view at the base of the staircase. He wore a stained gray canvas jacket and a faded baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Even in the dim light, the white, jagged line of a scar tore across his left jawline, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer.
Silas Vance.
He had a heavy crowbar gripped in his gloved right hand, and a pair of industrial bolt cutters tucked under his left arm. He didn't look like an ordinary intruder; he moved through the house with absolute familiarity, like a hired hound executing an old chore.
"Margaret told you to stay out of the house, girl," a voice rumbled from the bottom of the stairs. It was gravelly, ruined by years of cheap cigarettes. He wasn't guessing; he had seen my cab pull away, or perhaps he’d spotted the rear door ajar. "She said if you showed up poke-nosing around, I should finish what we started with the brat last night."
My heart vaulted into my throat. Noah hadn't wandered outside on his own. Silas had taken him. Noah had slipped away, fought like a wild animal, and scrambled under that hedge while this monster pursued him.
"Stay back!" I screamed, backing into the bedroom and scanning frantically for a weapon. "The police know who you are, Silas! Harris has your name, your record, and the checks my mother wrote you!"
Silas chuckled, a dry, rattling cough that bounced off the hallway walls as he climbed the stairs, one heavy step at a time. "Harris doesn't have a signed warrant until tomorrow morning, sweetheart. And by sunrise, there won't be anything under that shed but a fresh pour of quick-dry cement. Your mama pays good money for clean problems. Twelve years of easy money, and your daddy had to go making noise through the floorboards while the kid was watching cartoons."
He reached the landing.
Panic overtook rational thought. I grabbed Dad’s heavy iron floor lamp, ripping the cord from the wall outlet, and lunged toward the doorway just as Silas turned the corner. I swung the lamp base with every ounce of maternal fury in my body.
The solid cast-iron base struck Silas across the cheek, reopening the edge of his old scar with a sickening thud. He bellowed in rage, dropping the bolt cutters, his hands flying to his bleeding face as he stumbled backward against the banister.
May you like
I didn't hesitate. I shoved past him with all my weight, sending him crashing down the first four steps. Clutching Dad’s hollowed Bible in my left arm, I sprinted down the staircase, vaulting over the bottom landing, through the kitchen, and kicked open the back door into the black, rain-soaked night.
Behind me, Silas roared in fury, boots pounding down the stairs in violent pursuit.
