Chapter 1 - The Disconnected Line
Marcus snatched the cell phone from my hand, his eyes wild and furious beneath the rolled-up ski mask.
"Who was that?" he demanded, slamming his thumb against the red 'End Call' button. The kitchen plunged back into a terrifying silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator.
"Just a telemarketer," I lied, keeping my hands visible. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer against my ribs, but seventy-one years of life had taught me how to mask fear.
Marcus let out a cruel, barking laugh. He tossed my phone onto the linoleum floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his heavy work boot. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of dead glass.
"You think I'm stupid, old man?" Marcus sneered, grabbing me by the collar of my flannel shirt and shoving me backward. My spine hit the edge of the kitchen counter. "I asked around about you when I was cleaning those gutters. I know your wife is dead. I know you live alone. And I know you keep a wall safe in the master bedroom."
He was right. I did have a safe. But he was wrong about the rest.
He didn't know that my daughter, Sarah, was a 911 dispatcher for six years before she moved out of state. He didn't know that the phrase yellow flashlight was our coded emergency trigger. And he certainly didn't know that the local precinct was less than three miles down the road.
"Okay, Marcus," I said, my voice steady, though my knees ached from the impact. "You want the safe? I'll take you to the safe. Just put my wife's box down."
May you like
Marcus looked at the mahogany keepsake box in his hand. He smirked, shaking it. The faint rattle of Eleanor's antique jewelry echoed inside.
"We're going to empty the safe first," Marcus threatened, pulling a heavy, steel pry bar from his tool belt. "Walk."
