Chapter 11 - The Breath Against the Wood
The knob rattled violently as someone tried to force it against the deadbolt.
Lily was screaming now, completely terrified, her tiny left hand clutching fistfuls of my shirt while her purple prosthetic arm pressed hard against my collarbone. I pulled her tighter, backing into the furthest corner of the closet, my heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the thunder outside.
"Did you really think a wooden door would save you?" Kayla’s voice seeped through the crack beneath the door. It was hoarse, ragged, and thick with blood. "He fought hard, Aria. Your precious husband fought so hard. But he was looking at my hands... he forgot about the broken glass from the window."
Nausea surged into my throat. *Ethan.* Was he alive? Was he bleeding out on the hardwood floor just inches away?
"Open the door, sister," she whispered, her face pressing so close to the wood that I could hear the wet, uneven rattle of her breath. "Let me see my niece. Let me see the little million-dollar monster that ruined our family. Just one little kick didn't do the trick... but I have both hands tonight."
A splintering screech tore through the room as something heavy and metallic slammed against the lock.
The crowbar she had used to break the downstairs window bit into the pine frame. Wood chips exploded inward. The deadbolt groaned, the screws stripping out of the drywall.
"Police! Drop the weapon!" a voice roared from the bottom of the stairs—Detective Miller.
Gunfire cracked once, twice, deafening in the enclosed stairwell.
A guttural shriek tore from Kayla’s throat as she lunged backward from the closet door. Heavy thuds, crashing furniture, and the frantic shouting of officers filled the hallway.
Then, an eerie silence settled over the upper floor.
I held my breath, my entire body shaking so hard my teeth clacked together. Lily had gone dead quiet, staring at me with wide, terrified blue eyes in the dark.
From just outside the door, barely an inch from where my back pressed against the wall, I heard the faint, distinct sound of bare, wet feet dragging against the floorboards.
Then came a light, deliberate tap on the wood.
Not an officer. Not a paramedic.
A single, whispered sentence floated through the shattered keyhole, spoken with chilling, intimate certainty:
May you like
"I’m not in the hall, Aria... I’m in the ceiling."
Directly above my head, the drywall of the closet's attic hatch creaked, and a drop of warm, sticky liquid dripped through the seam, landing squarely on Lily’s cheek.
