Chapter 4 - The Sound of the Front Door Splintering
Back inside the house, the illusion of safety had completely evaporated.
Thomas realized the shattered plate in the dining room was a diversion almost immediately. He strode back into the hallway, his face dark with fury, realizing no one was hiding in the shadows.
“Clara!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “What kind of sick game are you playing?”
He stormed into the living room, looming over me like an executioner. When he saw me dragging myself toward the front door, leaving a smear of blood across the hardwood, a cruel, mocking sneer twisted his lips.
“What? Are you trying to crawl away?” he mocked, stepping directly into my path and planting his heavy boot squarely on my uninjured ankle, grinding down just enough to make me gasp. “Look at you. Pathetic. You can’t even walk to the bathroom, let alone escape. Who were you trying to reach? Your father?”
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
“In this storm? Out in the mountains? Even if you managed to call him, he’s old, he’s retired, and the roads are completely blocked by midnight drifts. By the time anyone got here, we would have already packed our bags and been halfway to the state line.”
I glared up at him, my vision swimming from pain and blood loss. Every breath felt like inhaling shards of ice.
“You’re… you’re insane,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
“I’m ambitious,” Thomas corrected smoothly, bending down to grab me by the collar of my sweater, hauling my upper body off the floor. “And you were standing in the way of my promotion, my transfer to Chicago, and my new life with Sarah. You should have just signed the divorce papers quietly, Clara. This is entirely your fault.”
He raised his hand, his palm cocked back, ready to deliver a blow that would likely finish what his foot had started.
I closed my eyes, bracing for impact, praying to whatever angels were listening that Poppy had made it to the storm cellar, that she was safe under the earth, hidden from the monster her father had become.
Bang.
The sound didn't come from inside the house.
It came from the front porch.
Thomas froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. His head snapped toward the heavy oak front door.
For a second, the wind seemed to die down, replaced by a heavy, ominous silence. Then came the sound of heavy, deliberate boots crunching up the wooden steps. Not the light, pattering steps of a six-year-old child.
Heavy steps. Unforgiving steps.
The steps of a man who had spent three decades hunting down the worst predators society had to offer.
Thomas dropped my collar, letting me slump back onto the floor, and turned toward the foyer with a scowl. “Who’s out there?” he demanded, stepping past the Christmas tree. “If that’s a neighbor, you’re trespassing—!”
Before he could finish the sentence, the front door didn't just open—it exploded inward.
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The heavy deadbolt sheared right through the wooden frame as a massive weight slammed against it from the outside. Splinters flew through the air like shrapnel.
And standing in the shattered doorway, framed by swirling snow and the harsh amber porch light, was Arthur Vance.
