My pulse hammered.Legs locked.Breathing stalled.The part of me that wanted to live screamed to run out of the house and never look back.The part that already knew the truth forced me closer.
Three steps brought me around the end of the hall table.
My father lay stretched on his back near the base of the stairs.One arm angled toward the living room as if reaching for someone seconds too late.His watch—the one I gave him for his birthday—stared up from his wrist.A wide bloom of blood soaked his shirt and the wood beneath him.His mouth hung open; his stare had no recognition, no pain, no voice left.
My body folded, and I caught myself against the wall before I collapsed.Acid surged up my throat, and I swallowed it down and forced breath through my nose to keep from vomiting.Horror didn’t come in waves.It hit all at once, absolute and irrevocable.Dad was dead.Someone had shot my father in his own home and left him to bleed out on the hardwood.
Instinct screamed—call for help, run to a neighbor, do anything except stand still.But I didn’t move.Shock welded me in place while warmth from his blood continued to glide across the floor toward my boots.
Television voices drifted from the living room.The heating system hummed.The tree lights cycled through colors.The whole house pretended nothing had changed.
Mom.Tommy.Claire.
I didn’t want to go upstairs.I had to go upstairs.
I pressed my back against the wall and edged toward the staircase, stepping around the worst of the blood.My boots left dark prints on the floor, and a distant corner of my mind whispered about crime scene contamination.I ignored it.Survival mattered more than evidence.
I placed a foot on the first step.
A board creaked above me.
I froze, muscles clenching so hard my knees trembled.A second later, a heavy, unhurried step crossed the upstairs hallway.Footsteps moved overhead—not a frantic survivor, not an intruder searching for valuables.Confident, unbothered steps.The gait of a person who believed they were alone.
The killer hadn’t left.
My heart slammed hard enough I heard it in my ears.A door upstairs opened.Closed.More calm footsteps.No rush.No fear.This wasn’t fight or flight.This was routine for whoever walked up there.
I backed down the stairs, nearly slipping through blood I refused to look at.My shoulder hit the hall table, and my keys scattered across the floor.I didn’t stop.The only place to hide without being seen through windows or open rooms was the coat closet by the front door.
I yanked it open and squeezed myself inside, wedged between winter jackets and storage bins.My breathing turned harsh and fast and I clapped both hands over my mouth to keep the sound contained.Sweat prickled across my spine, yet my skin felt ice-cold.
Boots reached the top of the stairs and started down again—steady, controlled, each step deliberate.No hesitation.No scanning corners.No caution.A man who believed he’d eliminated every target already.
The boots hit the entryway floor.
Through the narrow crack between the door and the frame, I saw part of the living room.Colored lights from the tree reflected off polished surfaces.A tall figure crossed into view—broad shoulders, dark clothing, gloves, purposeful stride.He wiped surfaces methodically, using a cloth, first the hall table, then the base of the stairs.He didn’t look anxious.He looked like someone finishing a checklist.
Recognition arrived like a punch.I had seen him before at my father’s office—standing in corners while men whispered about money and control.Gabriel Russo.A name people didn’t say lightly.
He bent near the front door and cleaned the handle.Every second that passed brought him closer to the closet.I tried to breathe slower, keep my pulse quiet, keep myself from collapsing.Lightheadedness crept in anyway.If I blacked out, my body would fall against the door and he would hear it.
He paused near the Christmas tree.Something flickered across his face—not softness, not memory exactly, but an interruption of the perfect emptiness he’d worn until now.Then it vanished.He returned to wiping, intent and efficient.
I remained still.I didn’t reach for my phone.I didn’t move a muscle.
Gabriel approached the hall table again.His attention shifted to my keys.He lifted them and studied the keychain before setting them back down.No recognition crossed his face—whoever owned those keys meant nothing to him.He had no idea someone was still alive.
Relief hit so hard my body nearly gave out.
He turned toward the front door.He reached for the handle.
His head lifted slightly—listening.His hand went to his jacket and came back with a gun.His entire body shifted into alert focus.
Predator detecting a heartbeat.
I forced myself silent.Every cell in my body prayed he would ignore impulse and leave.
He pivoted toward the closet.
