Chapter 3 - The Dark Descent
The second-floor hallway was bathed in pale moonlight streaming through the high arched window at the far end. Shadows stretched across the carpet like elongated fingers. I took off my shoes, holding them in my right hand, and crept down the hallway in my socks, keeping my body pressed against the wall where the floorboards were less likely to creak.
To my left was Caleb's room; the door was ajar, and I could hear his steady, rhythmic snoring. To my right was the master bedroom, where Raymond and Diane slept. The door was firmly closed.
My goal was Raymond's study on the ground floor. That was where my phone was locked away, and more importantly, where Raymond kept the master keys to the heavy deadbolts securing the front and back doors.
I reached the top of the wooden staircase. Every step was a potential trap. Farmhouses built in the 1920s had personality, and that personality included loud, groaning oak treads. I placed my weight on the extreme outer edges of each step, near the banister, where the wood was anchored most solidly to the frame.
Step one. Silence. Step two. A faint, low groan. I paused, heart hammering against my ribs, until the sound dissipated. Step three. Silence.
It took me nearly five agonizing minutes to descend the fourteen steps. When my feet finally touched the cold hardwood of the downstairs foyer, I leaned against the banister to catch my breath. My shoulder was throbbing furiously now, the sharp pain radiating down my left arm, a stark reminder of the chemical burn and heat damage beneath the makeshift bandage.
I navigated the dark corridor toward Raymond's study. The air downstairs was cold, smelling of old timber, woodsmoke, and the faint, bitter tang of the polish Diane used on the antique furniture.
The study door was unlocked. Raymond never expected anyone to break into a room inside his own house; his authority had never been challenged here.
I slipped inside and closed the door almost all the way, leaving a tiny sliver of space so I could hear if anyone approached.
The room was oppressive. Heavy mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, filled with religious texts, legal briefs, and leather-bound journals. In the center sat Raymond’s massive executive desk.
I moved behind the desk. The top drawer was locked, just as Leah had said. I pulled out the metal cuticle pusher and the small nail clippers again. But a desk drawer lock was different from an interior door latch; it was a small wafer lock.
I tried forcing the tool into the keyhole, but the metal was too thick. Frustration and panic flared in my chest. I couldn't pick it.
I needed a key, or I needed force.
I looked around the desk. Raymond was a man of strict routine. Everything had a designated place. On the leather blotter sat a brass letter opener shaped like a miniature broadsword.
I took the letter opener, wedged the flat blade into the seam between the top drawer and the frame, and leaned my weight onto it. The wood groaned softly. I applied more pressure, using my hip against the desk to push.
SNAP.
The brass blade bent slightly, but the wood of the drawer lip splintered, and the lock popped open with a muffled crack.
My heart leaped into my throat. I waited five seconds, listening intently. No sounds from the upstairs hallway.
I pulled the drawer open. There, sitting atop a stack of tax documents, was my iPhone. Next to it was the heavy brass key ring containing the master keys to the house.
I grabbed the phone immediately and held the power button. The screen illuminated, casting a harsh blue light across my face.
No Service.
I bit my lip. The farmhouse was situated in a valley; cellular service was notoriously spotty, often requiring a connection to the house Wi-Fi or moving to the top of the ridge behind the barn.
I tried dialing emergency services—911. The screen displayed searching, then Call Failed.
"Damn it," I whispered, tears of frustration hot against my eyes.
I needed to get outside. Once I was out of the house and on higher ground, the phone might catch a signal.
I picked up the key ring. It had four heavy, brass keys. I pocketed them, tucked my phone into my leggings waistband, and prepared to leave the study.
As I turned toward the door, a sudden beam of light cut across the hallway floor outside.
Someone was downstairs.
I pressed my back against the bookshelf, shrinking into the deep shadows behind the desk.
The light moved closer—a flashlight beam bouncing off the hardwood. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, were coming down the corridor.
It wasn't Caleb; Caleb walked lightly, dragging his heels slightly. These footsteps were rigid, precise, and heavy.
Raymond.
He stopped right outside the study door. The sliver of space I had left open caught the light of his flashlight.
"Diane?" Raymond's voice echoed through the lower floor, deep and rasping. "Did you leave the hall light off?"
No answer came from upstairs.
I held my breath, pressing my hand tightly over my nose and mouth to quiet my ragged breathing. My baby kicked hard against my stomach, as if sensing the danger outside. Not now, sweetie, please, not now, I prayed silently.
The study door pushed open further. The yellow beam of the flashlight swept across the room, illuminating the mahogany bookshelves, the leather chair, and finally coming to rest on the desk.
The flashlight beam stopped. It was focused directly on the splintered wood of the top drawer and the bent brass letter opener lying beside it.
Raymond knew.
I saw his silhouette in the doorway—a tall, broad-shouldered man in a plaid robe, his grey hair standing slightly on end. His hand dropped from the flashlight, reaching for the wall switch.
CLICK.
The overhead chandelier burst into harsh yellow light.
Raymond stood in the threshold, his dark eyes sweeping the room until they locked onto me, crouching in the corner behind the desk.
His face didn't register surprise. It registered a cold, terrible disappointment—the look of a man who had found a pest in his pantry.
"You are a remarkably ungrateful woman, Clara," he said softly, his voice devoid of anger, which made it infinitely more terrifying. "We gave you shelter. We offered to cleanse you so you could be worthy of our family line. And you break into my private affairs like a common thief."
"Stay away from me, Raymond," I said, my voice trembling as I stood up slowly, keeping the heavy mahogany desk between us. "I am leaving. If you try to touch me, I will file charges for what you did to my shoulder."
Raymond let out a low, dry laugh. "File charges? With what evidence? A burn mark on a woman who fell against a fireplace poker during an unfortunate dizzy spell? Caleb will testify it was an accident. Diane will testify you were hysterical. Who do you think the local sheriff—my cousin—will believe?"
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and turning the brass lock on the inside.
May you like
"You aren't leaving, Clara," Raymond said, stepping slowly around the desk. "Not tonight. Not until you understand your place."
I looked for anything to use as a weapon. On the desk lay a heavy crystal paperweight. My fingers closed around it just as Raymond lunged forward to grab my uninjured arm.
