Chapter 3: The Hunt
"Gavin?"
Tristan’s voice floated up from the first floor. It was back to being the friendly, affable tone of my son-in-law.
"Gavin, you awake? I thought I heard a thump."
I didn't breathe. I clutched the hard drive to my chest, curling my body into the darkest corner of the attic, behind a stack of old paint cans and a rolled-up Persian rug.
Heavy footsteps moved across the hardwood of the hallway. He was no longer trying to be quiet. He was hunting.
"Pops?" Tristan called out again. The voice was closer now. He was at the base of the stairs leading to the second floor. "You want me to get you a glass of water? I’m heading to the kitchen."
I looked back through the floorboard crack. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him opening doors. The bathroom. The hall closet. Delilah’s old bedroom. Every door opening and closing was a countdown.
"Well, now," Tristan’s voice echoed, and the friendly facade suddenly evaporated, replaced by that cold, dead tone. "The bed is empty. The sheets are cold. You didn't just get up for a midnight snack, did you, old man?"
He was at the top of the stairs. He was standing directly beneath the attic hatch.
"Dominic called you, didn't he?" Tristan asked the empty hallway. "The golden boy FBI agent. He always was a little too sharp. But he's not here, Gavin. It's just you and me. And I really, really need that drive Marsha left behind."
I reached out and grabbed the heaviest thing within arm's reach—a solid, unopened gallon can of white interior paint. The wire handle dug into my calloused palm. I was old, my knees ached when it rained, and I took medication for my blood pressure, but I was still a father. And this man had manipulated, used, and endangered my little girl. The fear in my chest began to curdle into a deep, primal rage.
The attic latch rattled.
He was pushing up against the hatch.
"Locked from the inside," Tristan mused, his voice muffled by the wood. "Clever. But you know this is just cheap plywood, right?"
CRACK.
May you like
A suppressed gunshot punched a hole straight through the attic hatch, missing my foot by six inches. Splinters of wood flew into the darkness.
"Last chance, Gavin," Tristan said. "Open the hatch, give me the drive, and I’ll make it quick. Make me come up there, and I promise you, I will make it hurt."
