Chapter 13 - The Unopened Box
The silence that followed the blackout was absolute, broken only by the crackle of dying embers in the fireplace.
Lucy stirred on the couch, whimpering softly in her sleep.
“Jenna,” I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“It’s just the snow,” Jenna said, her voice shaking despite her attempt at calm. “A branch probably took down a line down the road.”
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the small tactical flashlight Sarah had given me. I clicked it on, keeping the beam aimed low at the hardwood floor.
I walked over to the window. Outside, the world was a swirling sheet of white.
And then, through the snow, I saw them.
Two red taillights idling at the end of the long private driveway, two hundred yards away through the trees. Not an emergency utility truck. A long, black luxury SUV.
The lights blinked once. Twice. Then went dark.
“Pack Lucy’s shoes,” I said, my voice dead and cold.
“Claire—”
“Now, Jenna!”
I moved to the front door, slipping the deadbolt into place. My hand touched the brass handle, and I froze.
There was a light scratching sound against the wood from the outside porch.
I raised the flashlight, pointing it at the frosted glass panel beside the door. A silhouette stood on the deck—tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly still.
I pulled Lucy’s heavy iron fireplace poker from the hearth, my knuckles white, stepping directly in front of the door. “I have a gun!” I shouted into the wood. “The police have been notified! Step off the porch!”
No voice answered.
Only the slow, deliberate sound of boots stepping backward down the wooden stairs, crunching through the fresh snow.
Seconds later, the low rumble of a heavy engine echoed through the trees, slowly fading away into the distance until only the wind remained.
I waited five agonizing minutes. Then, keeping the poker raised, I slowly unlatched the deadbolt and cracked the heavy oak door open.
The porch was empty. Fresh boot prints led down the steps toward the road.
Sitting directly in the center of the welcome mat was a single package.
It was wrapped in crisp green paper.
Tied around it with red twine was a small card.
I knelt down, the beam of my flashlight shaking as it hit the handwriting on the tag. It wasn't Arthur’s elegant cursive. It was Mark’s loose, erratic scrawl.
*For Lucy.*
*Be brave.*
*Daddy.*
Behind me, the grandfather clock in the hall began to chime, signaling midnight. December thirty-first was over. January first had arrived. Lucy was twelve years old. The trust was legally ours.
Inside the box, something gave a faint, rhythmic, mechanical click.
May you like
Lucy woke up on the couch, sitting up groggily in the dim firelight. “Mom?” she called out, looking toward the open door. “Who was outside?”
I looked down at the green box sitting in the snow at my feet, my hand hovering over the red string, unable to move.
