Chapter 5 - The Locked Wardrobe
I slid my phone out with my left hand, keeping my thumb hovering over the emergency SOS shortcut. I didn’t run. If you run in a dark house against an adversary who knows the layout, you give up your angles.
Instead, I stepped backward into the shadow of the pantry hallway, extinguishing my flashlight.
Slow, heavy footsteps descended the wooden staircase.
Through the slats of the hallway divider, I saw a silhouette. But it wasn't Ryan.
The figure was shorter, wearing a hooded yellow rain poncho that dripped water onto the oak steps. The person carried a heavy leather duffel bag in one hand and a manila folder in the other.
As the figure reached the bottom step, the hood fell back.
It was Ryan’s mother, Brenda Vance.
Brenda was sixty-one, a pristine, sharp-featured woman who ran an upscale antique boutique downtown and had spent the last five years making passive-aggressive comments about Emily’s public school salary.
Brenda glanced toward the smoldering fireplace, cursed under her breath, and pulled her cell phone out. She hit speed dial and put the phone to her ear.
“Ryan? It’s me. I’m at the house,” Brenda whispered harshly into the phone. “I got the lockbox from the closet, but you idiot, you left the front door unlatched! Are you completely out of your mind?”
I stayed completely still in the dark pantry, memorizing every syllable.
“No, the cops aren't here yet,” Brenda continued, pacing toward the kitchen island. “Carol is still at the hospital holding Emily’s hand. You have maybe an hour before they get a warrant for the premises. Where are you meeting me?”
She paused, listening.
“Saint Jude’s? Why are you going there? ... Oh. Oh, Ryan. Tell me you didn't.” Brenda’s voice wavered for the first time, a sharp spike of real terror cutting through her icy composure. “That was not the plan. The plan was an unforeseen medical tragedy, not this!”
She hung up without waiting for an answer.
Brenda set the leather duffel on the kitchen island and unzipped it. She pulled out a small steel lockbox—the portable fireproof kind you buy at office supply stores—and set it next to the blender.
I stepped out of the pantry.
“Going somewhere, Brenda?”
Brenda shrieked, knocking the steel box off the counter. It hit the hardwood floor with a deafening crash, popping the latches open.
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Bank statements, foreign currency, and three distinct United States passports spilled across the floor.
***
