Chapter 12 - THE FOOTPRINTS OUTSIDE NOAH’S WINDOW
Daniel didn't shout. True terror doesn't scream; it suffocates.
He stood frozen in the foyer, the photographs burning against his skin like acid. The floorboards creaked above, followed by the soft pitter-patter of bare feet.
"Dad?" Noah’s small voice drifted over the banister. "Is it morning time?"
Daniel shoved the photos and the black envelope into the inside pocket of his heavy wool jacket hanging by the door. He took a single, agonizing breath, wiped the sheer panic from his expression, and turned around with a practiced smile.
"Morning, buddy," Daniel said, his voice husky. "Hungry for some blueberry pancakes?"
Maya appeared behind Noah, her hands resting gently on the boy’s shoulders. She looked down at Daniel, and in less than a second, her smile faded. Maya knew Daniel’s face better than anyone; she saw the gray pallor in his cheeks, the rigid posture of a man who had just spotted an executioner in the bushes.
"Noah," Maya said smoothly, keeping her voice light and melodic, "why don't you go wash your face and pick out your favorite socks? Dad and I will get the batter ready."
"The dinosaur ones?" Noah asked, rubbing his eyes.
"The dinosaur ones," Maya promised.
The moment Noah vanished into the bathroom, Maya descended the stairs in swift, silent strides. She grabbed Daniel’s arm. Her fingers dug through his shirt into muscle. "What happened? What was at the door?"
Daniel didn't speak. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the photographs, and handed them to her.
Maya gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. Her eyes darted from the photo of Noah sleeping to the shot of the second-story window. "Oh God... Daniel, someone was on the roof. Someone was right outside his glass."
"Look at the note," Daniel whispered, his voice trembling with a ferocious, feral rage. "Look what she wrote."
Maya read the hospital slip, her face draining of color. "What does she mean? 'What I put inside your son’s blood'? Daniel, Claire hasn't been near Noah since the wedding disaster three months ago!"
"Hasn't she?" Daniel's mind raced through the weeks leading up to that ruined ceremony. He remembered Noah being lethargic, complaining of stomach cramps, the sudden bouts of nausea the nanny had dismissed as wedding anxiety. Daniel had trusted Claire with Noah’s lunches. He had trusted her when she handed the four-year-old his evening vitamins.
Daniel spun on his heel and bolted out the back door into the cold morning air.
He rounded the corner of the house, his boots sinking into the wet mud beneath Noah’s window. He looked up at the sturdy white wooden trellis that supported the climbing wisteria. Three of the wooden slats were snapped clean in half. Fresh, dark mud was smeared across the white paint.
And directly below the trellis, pressed deep into the loam, was a single set of boot prints. Vibram soles. Tactical, heavy, size eleven.
Not Claire's feet. Claire wore expensive designer heels and size six flats.
Someone else had come to the house. A professional. Someone hired to deliver a message—or to prepare for something far worse.
As Daniel stared down at the boot prints, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. It was an unknown, private number.
He answered, bringing the phone to his ear without saying a word.
May you like
"Did you like the pictures, Daniel?" a man's voice purred on the other end. Deep, cultured, icy, completely devoid of empathy. "The photographer said your boy looks like an angel when he sleeps. It would be a profound tragedy if he never woke up."
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