Chapter 6 - UNWELCOME NEIGHBORS
Miller walked down the hardwood hallway toward the front door. I slid down against the side of his kitchen island, tucking myself into the shadow of the breakfast bar, holding my breath so hard my chest ached.
Through the hallway arch, I could hear the front door open. The cold evening wind whistled through the gap.
"Thomas," Mark’s voice carried clearly into the kitchen. He sounded perfectly composed, his tone that of an embarrassed neighbor making an awkward apology. "Sorry to bother you so late, man."
"Mark," Miller replied, his voice relaxed, conversational. "Everything alright? You look like you just ran a marathon through the woods."
"Yeah... about that," Mark gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "We've got a bit of an emergency next door. Our nanny, Clara Mercer—I don't know if you've seen her around—she had some kind of psychotic break about half an hour ago."
I squeezed my eyes shut, my nails digging into the hardwood floor.
"A break?" Miller asked smoothly. "What happened?"
"She attacked Brenda," Mark said, his voice dropping into a tone of deep, solemn concern. "Just snapped out of nowhere. Struck Brenda in the head with a heavy stone mortar from our counter. Blood everywhere. Then she took off running into the woods toward your property. We called the county sheriff, but we wanted to warn you in case she tried to break in here."
"A stone mortar?" Miller echoed. "Is Brenda alright?"
"She's holding up. She's with the baby right now," Mark lied effortlessly. "The poor kid is terrified. Clara was acting strangely all week, talking about non-existent marks on the child, accusing us of things... We had no idea she had a history of psychiatric instability."
"History?" Miller asked.
"Yeah. My brother ran a quick background check on her after the attack," Mark continued, playing his trump card. "She was forced out of her nursing position at Chicago General two years ago after a patient death involving falsified records. The woman is unstable, Thomas. If she comes near your house, don't engage. Just call the deputies."
A heavy silence stretched through the hallway. For three agonizing seconds, I thought Miller was going to hand me over. He was a cop. He knew how system hierarchies worked. Mark Vance had a brother in Special Investigations; I was a disgraced former nurse with mud on my clothes and a bruised face.
"Thanks for the heads-up, Mark," Miller finally spoke, his voice cool and detached. "I'll keep my eye out. In fact, why don't I walk back over with you? I can help Brenda secure the house until the deputies arrive."
My heart stopped. No. Miller, no!
"Oh, that's not necessary," Mark said quickly—too quickly. "We've got the security system armed. Just stay inside and lock your doors."
"It's no trouble, Mark. Neighborly duty," Miller insisted.
I heard the sound of footsteps shifting on the front porch.
"Really, Thomas, stay inside," Mark’s voice dropped its warm neighborly tone, replaced by a razor-thin edge of warning. "We have everything under control."
"Alright, Mark," Miller said calmly. "Stay safe."
The heavy front door clicked shut.
A second later, Miller stepped back into the kitchen. He pulled a heavy Glock 19 from his hip holster, checked the chamber, and slapped the magazine back into place with a sharp metallic snap.
"He lied about three things in thirty seconds," Miller said, looking down at me.
I looked up, tears of relief burning behind my swollen eye. "What?"
"First, county dispatch hasn't received a 911 call from this cul-de-sac tonight—I have the direct department feed on my phone," Miller said, his eyes glowing with dangerous intensity. "Second, Mark's hands were covered in dry grey clay from the creek bed, which means he was chasing you, not looking for help. And third..."
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Miller knelt beside me, handing me a small, encrypted satellite phone from his tactical pouch.
"Third... I’m not a Chicago homicide detective anymore, Clara. I was transferred to the Federal Witness Protection Taskforce six months ago. And that baby next door is my assignment."
