Chapter 4 - Defensive Lines
I called Dad, but his phone went to voicemail. I didn't want to panic, but my heart was hammering against my ribs. I grabbed the spare key to his gun safe—he’d taught me how to use a shotgun when I was sixteen—and stood by the door.
The car moved. It circled the block and came back. This time, it parked right under the streetlamp.
A man stepped out. He was tall, wearing a hoodie. He wasn't Mark. He was younger, faster. He began walking toward the porch.
I didn't think. I remembered the code. "Kitchen clock stopped." I hit send on the panic button linked to his specialized security system, which he had installed for "his own reasons" years ago.
Before the man reached the porch, the silence of the night was shattered by the high-pitched wail of an alarm that sounded more like a military alert than a home security system. The house bathed in floodlights.
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From the darkness of the garage, the side door kicked open. Dad didn't come out with a gun; he came out with a presence so absolute that the intruder stopped dead in his tracks. Dad stood there, in his undershirt, his eyes like ice, holding a heavy-duty flashlight that cut through the night.
The intruder bolted back to the car. Dad didn't chase him; he just stood there, writing down the license plate, his expression one of calculated, dangerous patience.
