Chapter 2 - THE SECRETS BENEATH THE ZIPPER

Silence fell over the kitchen, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady drum of rain against the windowpane. Richard didn't move. He stood there, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for a sound, a shift in weight, a baby's cry.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Richard," I said, stepping between him and the hallway that led to the stairs. My voice was firmer now, driven by a primal, maternal instinct to protect my child at all costs. "There is no one here. I tracked the mud in. I'm sorry. I'll clean it up."

Richard finally lowered his gaze from the ceiling to me. The facade of the respectable husband was completely gone. The mask had slipped, revealing the ruthless, cold-blooded killer beneath.

"Don't lie to me, Helen," he warned softly, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a sleek, suppressed handgun. It was black, compact, and utterly terrifying.

My breath caught in my throat. Twenty-three years. We had shared a bed, raised a son, celebrated anniversaries, and all the while, he was a man who carried a loaded, silenced weapon in his tailored suit.

"He's here," Richard stated, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "The boy always was sentimental. He went to Maya's apartment. He took what belongs to me. And he came running back to his mommy. It's pathetic, really. I tried to teach him how to survive in the real world, and he still ended up a soft, sniveling weakling."

"He is your son!" I screamed, the horror of the situation finally shattering my restraint. I lunged forward, grabbing his arm, trying to push the gun down. "Richard, stop! Please! You are sick, you need help! You killed that girl, I know what you did!"

Richard didn't even flinch. With a sickeningly casual motion, he backhanded me across the face.

The force of the blow threw me backward. I crashed into the kitchen island, my hip striking the sharp granite edge, and crumpled to the floor. The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth. The room spun wildly, dark spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

"I am a businessman, Helen," Richard said coldly, straightening his jacket as if swatting away a fly. He didn't even look down at me as I gasped for air on the floor. "Maya was a liability. She got greedy. In my line of work, liabilities are eliminated. And right now, Ethan is the biggest liability I have ever had. He took a suitcase containing two million dollars and ledgers that could put me away for multiple lifetimes. Do you really think I'm going to let him walk out of here alive?"

"He's an eighteen-year-old boy," I sobbed, struggling to push myself up on my hands and knees. "Please, Richard. Take the suitcase. Take the money. Just let him go. I swear, we won't say a word. We'll disappear."

"You already know too much," Richard replied stepping over me. He began walking toward the hallway. "And dead men don't talk."

THUMP.

A loud noise echoed from the attic.

Richard paused, a grim smile spreading across his face. "Ah. There he is."

He took a step toward the stairs. But before his foot could touch the first tread, the hallway closet burst open.

Ethan hadn't gone to the attic.

He had hidden in the closet, buried under the coats. He launched himself out of the darkness with a feral roar, tackling Richard around the waist. The sheer surprise and momentum of the attack sent both men crashing into the drywall.

The gun fired. Pfft.

The suppressed shot sounded like a harsh cough. A decorative vase on the hallway table shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Run, Mom!" Ethan screamed, grappling wildly with his father. Ethan was young and desperate, but Richard was terrifyingly strong, composed, and trained in violence. Richard slammed his elbow down onto Ethan's back, a brutal, sickening strike that drove the air from my son's lungs.

"You stupid boy," Richard hissed, wrapping one large hand around Ethan's throat, pinning him against the floorboards. With his other hand, he raised the gun, aiming it directly at Ethan's temple.

Time seemed to freeze. I saw my son, the boy I had rocked to sleep, the boy I had failed a year ago, struggling for his life under the crushing grip of a monster.

I couldn't fail him again. I wouldn't.

I scrambled to my feet, my hand blindly searching the kitchen counter. My fingers wrapped around the handle of the heavy, cast-iron skillet I had left out from breakfast.

I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I didn't scream.