D193.The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Patricia spun around, the pistol coming up in an instant.

Arthur scrambled to his feet, kicking the pry bar aside, his hands dropping toward his waistband.

“Mark,” Patricia breathed. A momentary flash of shock crossed her features, quickly replaced by a grotesque, predatory smile. “Look at you. The grieving widower returns to the scene of the crime.”

“Drop the gun, Rebecca,” I said, keeping my voice level, staring down the black bore of the barrel without flinching. “The house is surrounded. Miller has tactical units on both ends of the street.”

Patricia laughed—a sharp, shrill sound that bounced off the mahogany bookshelves. “You’re bluffing. You came here alone, didn't you? Just like you always do. The brave, solitary martyr trying to save his family after it’s already ruined.”

She took a step closer, raising the weapon until it was aimed directly between my eyes.

“Where is the key, Mark?” she demanded, her voice dropping into a harsh rasp. “Give me the key to the lockbox, and maybe I let you walk out of here alive. Maybe I let you go back to your pathetic, broken daughter.”

“You touch my children again, and I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands,” I said, taking half a step forward.

“Stay back!” Arthur barked, drawing a serrated hunting knife from his belt. “Give her the key, Mercer! Don't be a hero!”

I reached into my pocket, slowly, deliberately. Patricia’s finger tightened on the trigger, her knuckles turning white.

“Easy,” I murmured. “You want the key? It’s right here.”

I pulled out the silver chain, dangling the small brass key between my thumb and forefinger. In the dim light of the study, the polished metal caught the reflection of the rain outside.

Patricia’s eyes dilated with greed. Three point four million dollars, dangling on a thin chain.

“Toss it to me,” she commanded.

“Come get it,” I said.

She glanced at Arthur, nodding sharply. Arthur lunged forward, reaching out with his left hand to snatch the chain while keeping the knife poised in his right.

The moment his fingers brushed the silver links, I dropped my weight.

I slammed the heavy steel flashlight straight into Arthur’s kneecap with everything I had.

A sickening *crack* echoed through the room. Arthur let out a roar of agony, his leg collapsing beneath him as he crashed hard onto the hardwood floor, dropping the knife.

“Arthur!” Patricia screamed, pulling the trigger.

*BANG.*

The muzzle flash lit the room in an explosive burst of orange fire. The bullet shattered the plaster crown molding inches above my head, raining white dust down on my face.

Before she could adjust her aim for a second shot, I drove my shoulder into her midsection, tackling her back into Emily’s desk.

We crashed through the mahogany roll-top with a deafening splinter of wood. Papers, stationery, and books erupted into the air like confetti. The pistol flew from Patricia’s grip, skittering across the floor toward the dark hallway.

Patricia fought like a feral cat. Her fingernails raked across my cheek, tearing skin, her knees driving violently toward my groin. “I killed her!” she shrieked in my face, her breath hot and rancid. “I watched Emily choke on her own vomit while she begged for Ava! And I’ll kill you too!”

She grabbed a heavy brass bookend from the broken desk and swung it toward my skull.

I brought my forearm up, blocking the blow, the heavy metal bruising bone. With a surge of adrenaline fueled by fourteen months of lies, grief, and terror, I grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply until the bookend fell with a heavy thud.

Behind me, Arthur was dragging himself across the floor, his broken knee trailing blood, reaching for the fallen gun.