Chapter 6 - The Spider Returns
The heavy slam of the Escalade’s door echoed through the walls like a thunderclap.
Panic, icy and absolute, gripped Emily’s chest. She was on the second floor, lying on the rug of Ryan’s private study, surrounded by incriminating documents and an open safe. Her wheelchair was downstairs, parked by the stairs—a glaring red beacon that shouted she was not where she belonged.
*Think, Emily! Think!*
She shoved the forged insurance documents and the Cayman bank slips down the front of her fleece jacket, zipping it all the way up to her collar. She threw the rest of the papers back into the safe, pushed the heavy steel door shut until it clicked, and swung the framed architectural award back into place.
Downstairs, the front door unlocked. The deadbolt slid back with a heavy *clack*.
“Emily?” Ryan’s voice called out from the foyer. “Em, I brought that chicken noodle soup from the deli you like.”
Emily began dragging herself across the study rug toward the hallway, her elbows burning as if submerged in acid. Every muscle in her upper body screamed in protest.
“Emily?” His voice grew sharper. She heard his footsteps move into the living room, followed by a heavy pause.
He had seen the empty wheelchair.
“Emily? Where are you?!” The gentle, caring tone vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, barked command. Heavy footsteps marched toward the kitchen, then toward her ground-floor bedroom.
Emily reached the top of the staircase landing. Going up had been agony; going down would be suicide. If she slipped, she would tumble down fourteen wooden steps and break her neck.
She spotted the linen closet at the end of the second-floor hallway. It had a louvered bi-fold door that reached all the way to the floor. Digging her toes into the carpet, ignoring the fire exploding in her lower spine, she pulled herself into the shallow closet, squeezing her body between bundles of spare blankets, and pulled the slatted door shut just as Ryan’s footsteps hit the bottom of the stairs.
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
He was running up the steps, three at a time.
Emily held her breath, pressing her face against a stack of clean towels. Through the narrow slats of the closet door, she saw his legs pass by. He wasn't wearing his shoes; he was in his socks, moving with terrifying, silent speed.
He stormed straight into his study.
Emily heard the rustle of papers, the faint metallic clink of the picture frame. Ryan was checking the safe.
She pulled her phone from her waistband, her fingers slick with sweat. She sent a rapid-fire text to Vance:
*He’s here. Second floor. He knows I know. Get the police.*
The response came three agonizing seconds later:
*Vance: I’m ten minutes out with two county cruisers. Do not confront him. Stay hidden!*
Ten minutes. It might as well have been ten hours.
In the study, a terrifying roar erupted. “NO!”
The sound of a heavy chair being thrown across the room smashed through the silence. Glass shattered. Ryan stormed out of the study, his face flushed purple with rage, his breathing ragged. He stood in the middle of the hallway, just three feet from the linen closet.
“EMILY!” he screamed, his voice cracking with unhinged fury. “I know you’re up here! You think you’re clever?! You think that retired cop is going to save you?!”
He kicked the wall, putting a hole straight through the drywall.
“You ungrateful little bitch!” he snarled, pacing back and forth. “I spent eight months wiping your ass! I gave up my life to play the saint while you whined about your stupid legs! Do you know how hard it was to keep you alive?! Victoria wanted to cut your brake lines on the interstate! I told her no—I told her we needed the payout, we needed you helpless, not dead!”
Emily felt a tear slip down her cheek, but she clamped her teeth together, biting her lower lip until she tasted copper. She refused to make a sound.
Ryan stopped pacing. He was standing directly in front of the linen closet.
May you like
Through the slats, Emily could see the hem of his dark jeans. She could hear his heavy, ragged breathing. Slowly, his hand rose. His fingers curled around the brass knob of the closet door.
***
