Chapter 2 - The Footsteps in the Midnight Hallway
The heavy solid-oak door groaned under the impact of Julian’s weight.
"Mom! I know you're in there!" Julian screamed, his voice no longer that of the polite, successful corporate son I had raised, but the rabid snarl of a cornered beast. "Open the door before I break it down! You don't know what you're doing!"
Behind him, I heard Victoria’s frantic, high-pitched voice in the hallway. "Julian! Did she see her? Tell me she didn't get the lid open! The private transport van from the crematorium is coming at five in the morning! If anyone finds out, we lose the money—we go to federal prison!"
"Shut up, Victoria!" Julian barked through the door. "Mom! Open this door! Chloe is sick, she has a violent infection! You're endangering all of us!"
On the counter, Chloe curled into a tiny ball among the towels, whimpering softly, her hands clamped over her ears. "Grandma... Daddy is angry... Daddy said bad things happen to girls who don't sleep..."
"Listen to me, 911," I spoke urgently into the receiver, my voice trembling with cold fury. "They are attempting to break down the door. They have arranged for a private crematorium van at 5:00 AM. They are trying to murder this child for insurance money. Hurry, please!"
"Ma'am, stay on the line," the dispatcher responded, her voice steady and urgent. "Officers are three minutes out. Do not open that door under any circumstances."
A loud CRACK splintered the upper panel of the laundry door. Julian was using a fire poker from the living room hearth. The sharp brass tip punched through the wood, inches from my head.
"Julian, stop!" I screamed, standing between the splintering door and the basket where Chloe lay. "This is your daughter! Your flesh and blood! What kind of monster are you?!"
"You don't understand, Mom!" Julian shouted, panting heavily as he struck the door again. Wood chips rained down onto the tiled floor. "We owe eight million dollars to people who don't make second warnings! Victoria's family trust went bankrupt two years ago! If we don't pay by Friday, they're going to put both of us in the ground! Chloe was supposed to sleep through it! The sedative was supposed to stop her heart peacefully before the fire! You ruined the plan!"
The monstrous cruelty of his words froze the blood in my veins. My own son—the boy I held as a newborn, the boy I taught to ride a bicycle—had weighed his innocent daughter's life against his debts, and chosen the money.
"You will burn in hell for this, Julian," I said, tears of absolute disgust spilling down my cheeks.
"Stand back, Julian!" Victoria’s voice shrieked from outside. "Give me the crowbar from the garage! Break the hinges!"
I looked around the small laundry room desperately. There was no exterior door, only a high, narrow hopper window that opened into the backyard garden well. It was small, but Chloe was tiny.
I dropped the phone receiver, letting it dangle by its cord. I rushed to the window, turned the rusty latch, and shoved the window upward into the freezing midnight air.
"Chloe, look at me," I commanded softly, lifting her into my arms. "I need you to be the bravest girl in the world. I'm going to push you out onto the grass beneath the rhododendron bushes. You stay flat, you stay quiet, and Grandma will follow right behind you."
"I'm scared, Grandma," she wept, her little body shaking with fever and chills.
"I know, baby. But Grandma is right here. Up you go."
I hoisted her up and pushed her gently through the narrow frame. She tumbled softly into the damp mulch of the flowerbed just outside.
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At that exact second, the laundry door gave way with an ear-splitting crash.
Julian burst through the splintered frame, his eyes bloodshot, the brass fire poker raised in his right hand. Victoria stood right behind him in her black designer mourning dress, her face contorted in a mask of pure demonic rage.
