Chapter 8 - The Race Against Time
Before Michael could pull the trigger, a brilliant beam of light cut through the darkness of the living room, blinding him.
Clare stood at the top of the stairs, holding my heavy steel flashlight. With a primal scream of rage, she didn't just hold the light—she hurled the heavy metal cylinder down the staircase with perfect, desperate aim. It struck Michael squarely in the chest, knocking him off balance just as the gun went off.
The bullet shattered a framed family portrait on the wall.
I didn't waste the second she bought me. Despite the pain in my head, I lunged forward, grabbing Michael's ankles and pulling him down to the floor. The gun skittered across the hardwood, sliding straight into the kitchen.
Marcus, seeing the tide turn and wanting no part of a murder charge, turned and bolted out the open front door, disappearing into the torrential rain and the safety of the dark woods.
Michael fought with the desperation of a cornered animal, but the poison in his system and the injuries from his car crash made him weak. I managed to pin his arms behind his back, using my old leather belt to bind his wrists tightly together before he could recover his breath.
Clare ran down the stairs, throwing her arms around me. "Dad! Are you okay?"
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"I'm fine, sweetheart. Just a bump," I gasped, looking down at the man who had deceived us for nearly a decade. Michael lay on the floor, breathing heavily, staring at us with absolute hatred.
"It's over, Michael," I said. "The police are already looking for you."
