Dad never leaves the door like that. It’s either wide open when he’s not using it or closed shut when he’s inside. I listen for a second more, then kick the door open, sending it crashing against the wall. I point the gun in front of me, my finger gripping the trigger.
Dad’s heavy desk is overturned, picture frames and lamps are shattered, and bullet holes dot his built-in shelves. “Holy shit,” I whisper. I step across the splintered pieces of desk and run my fingers along the dark wood. The bullet holes are huge, made by a high-powered automatic weapon. My boot kicks a piece of glass. A silver frame with a picture of me as a little girl is on the ground. My face smiles wide for the camera. I have an ice-cream cone in my hand and chocolate smeared across my upper lip. I can’t be more than five. My eyes are the same dark color as the ice cream and I’ve never looked so happy. I lean down and pick it up. The glass is cracked and a piece falls to the ground as I pull it toward me. Something red is smeared at the bottom. Blood. I look closer. A bloody fingerprint. But whose fingerprint? Whose blood? I place the frame on the shelf. My head is screaming. The muscles in my body feel like they’re unraveling. But I won’t scream. And I won’t collapse. The training is taking over. I’m not scared anymore. I’m pissed. And the only thing I can think of is finding and stopping whoever is inside my house.
I step over the splintered desk, broken glass, and shell casings, making my way down the hall. I sidestep along the wall, my gun at my chest. My heel taps the woodwork along the kitchen door. My muscles tighten as I watch the light at my feet, waiting for a shadow to pass. Nothing happens. I whip my body around the doorframe and point my gun straight ahead. My eyes search the room for intruders but it’s empty. Shards of glass are everywhere. I feel a cold breeze on my face. I point my gun to the left. The patio door is shattered and the glass that once stood there now glitters in a million little pieces on the floor.
The glass crunches under the weight of my feet as I sidestep toward the garage, my back pushed up against the wall of cabinets. On the other side of the island, a red brick lies on the ground. There’s a deep gash in the wood above it where it first hit. The sound of it—the breaking glass, the pieces scattering across the kitchen, my mother crying out for me—floods my ears once again. There is a coffee cup on the counter; Mom’s creamy pink lipstick hugs the white rim. Today’s mail is spread out on the island and the portable phone is smashed to pieces next to unopened letters and unread magazines.
Wind passes through the kitchen and something flapping near the brick catches my eye. I step carefully across the kitchen, lean down and pick it up. My hands are trembling as I pull at the rubber band wrapped around it. It snaps against a coarse edge, coming undone, and the sound makes my muscles jump. I unfold the piece of paper. The word VENGANZA is written in all caps followed by a drawing of a hammer. REVENGE, the thick black ink screams at me. The fumes are still fresh and make me dizzy.
“No,” I say to myself, crumbling the piece of paper in my hand. “No!”
If someone is still here, they certainly know by now I’m inside. But I want them to know. I want them to come after me. I run out of the kitchen and into the den. My breath is short. My pulse is panicked. I point the gun into the room. My arms outstretched. Searching. No one.
I run through the hallway. The sound of my pounding feet echo and fill the silent two-story foyer. I sprint up the stairs, two, three at a time. My legs are moving without me even telling them what to do. Without me even thinking. The hall is empty. I shove open the guest bedroom door and point my gun inside. Nothing. I move down to the next and the next and the next. Still nothing.
I sprint down the hall toward my parents’ room. The door is closed. I stand and listen. I hear my breath going in and out of my lungs. I push open the door and point my gun inside. I step onto their plush carpet. Slivers of glass stuck in my boots catch on their floor. But the room is empty. The house is silent.
The panic room. Maybe they made it downstairs in time to the panic room.
My body flings down the stairs so quickly I almost fall. I catch myself with the railing and keep going. The glass flies in the air as I sprint across the kitchen but before I can open the garage door, a thud stops me cold.
I stop and listen. I hear the thud again. I raise my gun to my chest and sidestep along the cabinets of the kitchen, careful not to disturb the shattered glass and give away my location. Footsteps walk quietly down the hallway. My body presses against the side of the door frame as the footsteps get closer and closer. They’re heading right for me. My heart pounds, matching the thud of the footsteps. I take a breath and whip my body around the door frame, my gun raised and pointed at the temple of Luke.
His eyes widen to the point that I can see all the white around his blue irises. Staring into the barrel of my pistol, Luke instinctively raises his hands into the air.