Chapter 8 - THE NIGHT VISITOR
I grabbed Noah, who was wide awake, and pulled him into the walk-in closet in my bedroom. I locked the bedroom door, then pulled a heavy dresser in front of it. We huddled on the floor among the winter coats, wrapped in a blanket.
Below us, I heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.
The back door.
My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears I thought it would deafen me. I clutched my phone, dialing 911.
“911, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher answered.
“My husband,” I breathed, trying to keep my voice to an absolute whisper. “He’s broken into the house. He has warrants. My father is downstairs.”
“Officers are dispatched. Stay on the line, ma'am.”
Downstairs, a voice echoed through the floorboards. “Where is she, old man? Give me the boy and the rest of the files, and maybe I’ll let you live.”
It was Evan. He sounded unhinged, wild.
“You’ve lost your mind, Evan,” I heard my father reply, his voice steady as a rock. “Drop the crowbar. I won't ask twice.”
“You think you can shoot me? You don't have the guts—”
A deafening BANG echoed through the house. Noah screamed, burying his face in my chest. Wood splintered.
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“Next one goes in your knee, Evan,” my father roared. “Back up!”
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. He was running up.
