Chapter 6 - Shadows in the Woods
That night, the wind picked up off the Puget Sound, howling through the Douglas firs and rattling the old windowpanes of my father’s house. Noah was fast asleep down the hall in my old childhood bedroom, clutching his stuffed triceratops with both arms, safe and warm beneath three layers of blankets.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring out the window into the pitch-black woods surrounding the property. The moon was entirely obscured by thick, churning storm clouds. Even though Evan was locked in the Pierce County Jail without bail, the phantom weight of his presence still lingered in the corners of my mind. Every creak of the house sounded like heavy boots on the stairs. Every shadow cast by the hallway light felt like a looming figure waiting to demand an explanation for every penny spent.
Downstairs, I heard the heavy, familiar thud of my father’s boots pacing the hardwood floor. He hadn't gone to sleep yet.
I slipped on a knitted cardigan and walked quietly down the stairs. The house was illuminated only by the soft, amber glow of a single brass lamp on the sideboard. Dad was standing by the kitchen window, holding a heavy-duty tactical flashlight, staring out into the tree line where the gravel driveway met the dark woods.
“Dad?” I whispered, walking into the kitchen. “Everything okay?”
He didn't turn around immediately. He clicked off the flashlight and let out a long, weary breath that fogged the windowpane. “I thought I saw headlights down by the mailboxes, El. Probably just a deer or a neighbor’s late-night boat trailer, but old habits die hard.”
I walked over and stood beside him, leaning my head against his broad, flannel-clad shoulder. For the first time in seven years, I felt protected by someone who didn't want anything from me except my safety.
“Do you think he has people on the outside?” I asked quietly. “People who might try to... I don't know, intimidate us?”
“Evan is a coward, Elena,” Dad said firmly, wrapping a heavy arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. “Cowards don't operate alone when things go south; they hire cheap muscle or rely on cronies. But out here, in Gig Harbor? On my water? Nobody touches my family. I’ve survived union strikes, maritime accidents, and thirty-foot swells on the Bering Sea. I’m not about to let some white-collar snake touch my daughter or my grandson.”
Suddenly, a sharp thump echoed against the side of the house near the mudroom entrance.
Dad’s body went completely rigid. In one fluid motion, he reached into the holster strapped beneath his heavy winter coat, pulling out his old nickel-plated Smith & Wesson revolver—a gun he kept locked in the basement safe but clearly had brought upstairs tonight.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered in a low, granite-hard whisper.
May you like
He crept toward the mudroom door, his footsteps completely silent despite his size. I stood frozen in the center of the kitchen, my hand pressed against my mouth, every instinct screaming that the nightmare was catching up to us.
Dad reached the door, flicked the deadbolt open, and flung it wide, stepping out into the driving rain with his flashlight beam cutting a blinding swath through the dark.
