Chapter 4 - FOOTSTEPS ON THE PORCH
Panic is a physical thing. It tastes like copper on your tongue, it turns your veins to ice, and it steals the air straight out of your lungs.
"He's early," I breathed, my voice barely audible over the sudden roaring in my ears. "Ethan, he never comes home this early. Never."
"He's looking for me," Ethan said, leaping up from the stool. He moved with the frantic, desperate energy of a cornered animal. He grabbed the baby from the laundry basket, pressing her securely against his chest, and grabbed the handle of the broken suitcase with his other hand. "Mom, if he finds me here, he'll kill us all. You have to pretend you know nothing. You have to be exactly the woman he left this morning."
"No, you have to run out the back door!" I urged, pushing him toward the hallway. "Run through the woods behind the house. I'll stall him."
"It's too late," Ethan hissed, gesturing toward the kitchen window.
Richard was already out of the car. He was walking up the front walkway, his posture rigid, his face an impenetrable mask of calm. But I noticed something I had never seen before. He wasn't carrying his usual leather briefcase. His hands were empty, save for his keys, and he was walking with a heavy, purposeful stride. He looked like a hunter who had finally cornered his prey.
"The attic," I said, grabbing Ethan by the shoulders and shoving him toward the stairs. "Go up to the attic. Pull the cord up behind you. Do not make a sound. If she starts crying, cover her mouth just enough to muffle it. Go, Ethan. Now!"
Ethan didn't hesitate. He scrambled up the main staircase, his damp socks making no sound on the carpet. I heard the soft click of the attic hatch opening, a faint rustle, and then the scrape of the hatch closing tight.
I spun around. The kitchen was a disaster zone of clues. Ethan's wet boots were sitting by the front door. I sprinted into the foyer, grabbed the heavy, mud-caked boots, and shoved them violently into the hall closet, burying them beneath a pile of winter coats. I rushed back to the kitchen, grabbed Ethan's half-empty mug of tea, and dumped the contents down the sink, throwing the mug into the dishwasher.
I grabbed a dish towel and frantically wiped down the counter where Ethan had been sitting, erasing the wet rings from his mug and the muddy smears from the suitcase.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Richard’s heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden porch.
I smoothed down my sweater, forced a deep breath into my burning lungs, and walked toward the kitchen island, pulling a cutting board and an onion toward me. I grabbed a knife. My hand was shaking so badly the blade rattled against the wood.
The front door unlocked with a sharp click. The heavy oak door swung open, and the cold, damp air of the storm swept into the house, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of my husband's expensive cologne.
"Helen?" Richard called out, his voice smooth, deep, and perfectly controlled.
"In the kitchen, Richard," I called back, amazed that my voice didn't crack. I began slicing the onion, the sharp sting in my eyes providing a convenient excuse for the tears I knew were welling up.
Footsteps moved through the foyer and into the kitchen. Richard stopped in the doorway. I kept my back to him for a moment, finishing the slice before turning around with a mild expression of surprise.
"You're home early," I said, wiping my hands on the dish towel.
Richard stood there, immaculate in his dark, tailored suit. Not a hair was out of place. He looked exactly like the man I had kissed goodbye this morning. There was no blood on him. No sign of the monster who had strangled a young girl in a dingy apartment just hours before.
"Work finished early," he said casually, his cold, dark eyes sweeping the room. They lingered on the floorboards, moving over the kitchen island, before finally landing on me. "It's miserable out there. I thought I'd come home to my wife."
He walked toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. He stopped right in front of me, invading my personal space in a way that suddenly made my skin crawl. He reached out, his large, manicured hand brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
I forced myself not to flinch. I forced myself to lean into his touch, though every fiber of my being screamed at me to run.
"You're trembling, Helen," he noted softly, his thumb resting against my jawline.
"I'm just cold," I lied, offering a tight smile. "The draft in here is terrible today. I was just starting dinner."
Richard's eyes didn't leave mine. They were terrifyingly empty. Like staring into a void. "Is that right?" he murmured.
He slowly pulled his hand away and took a step back, his gaze dropping to the floor. "That's strange, though."
"What is?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Richard pointed a polished leather shoe toward the floor by the kitchen island. Right where Ethan had been sitting.
"There's a puddle of water here," Richard said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its conversational tone and hardening into something lethal. "And mud. But you haven't been outside all day, have you, Helen?"
I stared at the small puddle I had missed in my frantic cleaning. It was a perfect, muddy footprint left by Ethan's soaked socks.
"I... I went out to the garage to get some onions," I stammered, pointing weakly at the cutting board. "My boots must have tracked it in."
Richard looked at the onions. Then he looked at the mud.
"Your boots are a size seven, Helen," Richard said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket. "That footprint belongs to a man."
The air in the room turned to ice.
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"We have a guest, don't we?" Richard whispered, a cruel, knowing smile twisting his lips. He tilted his head back, looking directly at the ceiling. Looking straight toward the attic. "And I think I know exactly who it is."
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