Chapter 2 - The Hand on the Woodwork
The screen of Nolan’s phone was small, but the high-definition lens mounted beneath his mother’s porch eaves left no room for ambiguity. The footage was timestamped three days ago, at precisely 2:14 PM. The autumn sunlight washed over the gray slate stairs, catching the condensation on the paper grocery bags I had been clutching against my chest.
I watched myself take the first step. Then the second.
Behind me, the heavy oak door of Lorraine’s house did not merely swing open caught in a gust of wind. It unlatched with deliberate slowness, held at the edge by a pale, manicured hand wearing the heavy silver turquoise ring Lorraine had owned for thirty years.
"Watch her feet," Nolan whispered, his voice dangerously low.
I leaned closer, the smell of sterile hospital antiseptic suddenly suffocating. As my virtual self reached the fourth riser, the door opened another six inches. Lorraine’s arm extended fully. In her grip was not a walking aid or an extended hand of greeting, but the curved brass handle of her late husband’s heavy antique walking stick. She didn't shout a warning. She didn't lean forward to offer help with the heavy parcels. With a swift, calculated jab, she thrust the cane between the balusters of the wrought-iron railing, hooking it directly behind my right ankle.
On the screen, my foot caught. My balance sheared away. The groceries flew into the air—cartons of milk bursting on the flagstones, oranges bouncing down into the shrubbery—and I tumbled headfirst down the steep concrete flight.
The camera captured the sound in sharp digital clarity: the sickening crunch of bone, my ragged, truncated scream, and then the heavy thud of my body striking the pavement below.
And then came the most horrifying detail of all. Lorraine did not rush down the steps. She stood framed in the doorway for three full seconds, staring down at my crumpled form. Slowly, deliberately, she retracted the cane, wiped the handle with the hem of her cardigan, stepped back inside, and pulled the front door shut.
Ten minutes had passed on the recording before she emerged again, this time screaming hysterically into her cordless telephone, pretending she had just discovered me.
My hands shook so violently that the hospital bed sheets rustled beneath my fingers. "She did that on purpose," I breathed, the realization chilling me to the core. "Nolan... she tried to kill me."
Nolan didn't answer right away. His knuckles were bone-white where he gripped the edge of the mattress. His jaw was set so hard that a vein pulsed violently along his temple. When he finally looked up, his eyes were cold with a fury I had never seen in all our years together.
"Stay here," he said softly. "Don't let anyone in except Paige."
May you like
He pocketed his phone and turned toward the door. Outside in the corridor, Lorraine’s high-pitched, theatrical voice was still lecturing the patrol officer about filial ingratitude. Nolan stepped through the doorway, and the heavy hospital door clicked shut behind him.
***
