The message flutters a little in the warm breeze, stuck to the door with a huge-ass knife—a goddamn meat cleaver.
Talk about overkill.
Or is it escalation?
I stare at it from where I’m sitting in my truck, my heart thudding heavily. Whatever it’s supposed to mean, it’s nothing good, of that I’m sure.
Then I shake off my daze and climb out of the truck, slam the door behind me and go up the porch steps to my door. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. I half-expect the door to be cracked open, and to see crimson and bodies on the floor.
Fuck, these are images pulled right out of my worst nightmares, the ones that have me falling out of bed, choking on a scream.
The door is closed. The message reads, “What is most precious to you?”
Oh fuck, my kids. Ross wouldn’t dare touch my kids, would he? Goddamn sicko.
I reach for the handle of the knife, and hesitate. I think I can hear Cole laughing from inside.
Keep your wits, Matt.
I don’t touch the fucking knife. I don’t touch the fucking piece of paper.
Instead I call the police, tell John what happened, describe the knife, tell him what the message says this time. Tell him to arrest Ross before I get my hands on him.
Predictably John tells me to cool my guns and stay put.
As if.
And then I put my key into the lock, open the door and walk inside, my heart still racing, banging around inside my chest, my mouth dry. I fear the worst, like every time, conditioned to expect it.
But they’re all three of them there, sitting on the thick carpet, playing with a Star Wars Lego set. A set my dad bought the kids before he died.
So much death.
Yet they’re alive. They’re alive and well, and even if the one thing I really wanna do is run to them, grab them and hold them, feeling their heartbeats, their breaths on my face, I swallow down bile and turn away, not trusting my voice, my reaction.
Whiskey sounds good right about now.
A whole goddamn bottle of it. Enough to drown my thoughts.
But now is not the time. They’re okay, and that’s all that matters.
So I stagger out the way I came, coming up short at the edge of the porch. Leaning on the pillar, I fold my arms over my chest and wait for the police to arrive.
Octavia comes outside soon after, calling my name.
She stops and her eyes go wide when she sees the cleaver stuck in the door. “Holy shit.” She stumbles sideways, and I catch her, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. “When…? How?”
“You didn’t hear anything? See anyone?”
She shakes her head, her face white. “We were upstairs, in the kids’ bedroom.” Then she lifts a hand to my face. “God, what happened to you? Your eye is black and blue.”
I’d forgotten about that, and I say nothing as she leans against me. She’s soft and slight and silky and it would only be natural that I put my arms around her, pull her to me.
Even my hand on her shoulder feels too good. I wanna stroke her collarbone, cup her tits, feel her curves. I wanna bury my nose in her soft hair and inhale her sweet scent.
Fuck. Me.
Reluctantly I let her go.