Chapter 3 - The Hidden Weapon
The weight of Andrew’s hand lingered on my forehead for a second longer before he withdrew it. I heard him walk toward the utility closet near the back door. The metallic rattle of plastic gas cans being moved made my blood run cold. He was preparing the accelerant, systematically setting the stage for the tragedy he had scripted.
While his back was turned, deep in the pantry alcove, I needed to buy time. But more than that, I needed something to protect my son.
My gaze drifted downward, scanning the floor inches from my face.
When Ethan’s water glass had shattered earlier, most of the fragments had swept toward the center of the room. However, one large, jagged shard of heavy crystal—thick enough to serve as a makeshift blade—had slid across the slick linoleum and come to rest right underneath the bottom edge of the refrigerator, half-hidden in the shadow.
If I could reach it without making a sound, I might have a fighting chance.
I inched my body forward, sliding my torso across the cool tile. Every muscle in my back protested, screaming under the lingering effects of whatever poison Andrew had laced into our dinner. My head spun violently, threatening to drag me down into true unconsciousness, but I fought through the gray fog.
Just a few more inches.
From the utility closet came the sharp twist of a nozzle being unscrewed. The pungent, chemical odor of lighter fluid began to drift into the kitchen air, cutting through the lingering scent of garlic and mushrooms.
My fingertips grazed the cold edge of the glass shard.
I gripped it tightly, ignoring the sharp pain as the edge bit into my palm, drawing a small bead of blood. I curled my fingers inward, concealing the glass inside my closed fist, and pulled my arm back against my side just as Andrew’s footsteps approached again.
“Just need to tidy up a bit,” he muttered to himself, his voice disturbingly casual.
I felt the spray of liquid hitting the cabinets near the stove. He was splashing the accelerant along the baseboards, creating a trail that would lead straight from the back door to the dining table.
My mind raced back to the phone call. Had the emergency dispatch center understood the silent signal? Were police already speeding down our quiet suburban street, or were we completely alone in this brightly lit room with a man who had turned into a stranger?
I opened my eyes just a fraction, risking a glance toward Ethan. He was still motionless, his breathing shallow.
Then, through the window above the sink, I caught a sudden flash of amber light sweeping across the front lawn.
It wasn't a police cruiser yet—it was the high beams of a vehicle turning into our driveway. But whose car could it be at this hour? Andrew didn't mention expecting anyone else, and our neighbors rarely visited unannounced past nine o'clock.
Andrew froze. The splashing sound stopped instantly.
“Who the hell is that?” he muttered, dropping the plastic can with a heavy thud against the floor.
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Footsteps hurried toward the front hallway.
I used the distraction to drag myself across the tile toward Ethan, my fingers squeezing the hidden glass shard like a lifeline. If anyone was coming through that front door, they were walking straight into a trap—or they were the only salvation we had left.
