A chill runs down my spine as I walk past the doors to the balcony.
My killer had walked this very hall and snuck through those doors with the intent to kill me. Thank God he didn’t succeed.
I walk to the end of the hall and open the door to the half bath.
Flicking on the switch, the light hums to life. A pale glow spills over the white tile. The pedestal sink gleams, and right next to the toilet is the window.
Walking over to it, I see it's locked. My fingers find the latch and slide it open. Looking down, I see a trellis running down to the bushes. Since this bathroom is positioned in the farthest corner of the house, there are no cameras, no guards, and nocoverage. The killer could have snuck around the side, climbed up the trellis, slipped through the window, and waited here until the right moment. Then made a dash onto the balcony, fired the gun, and climbed back through the window all without being noticed.
I take out my phone and text the security installer to tell him I need extra cameras.
Staring at the window again, I pause.
But the window was locked from the inside. Maybe the intruder could have broken it or maybe someone had left it unlocked.
One of the guards patrolling the hall could have easily opened the window, then closed it, and no one would have known.
My stomach twists. Whoever wants me dead has someone in my circle working for them. Stepping back from the window, something catches my eye by the baseboard.
A bobby pin.
I pick it up with the edge of my sleeve and drop it into a small plastic bag from the drawer. It’s then I notice a mark on the floor near the wall.
It’s half a footprint.
It had rained the day before my party so the dirt in the yard was slightly damp. The killer must have tried to clean up and forgot about that mark. Or maybe assumed I would never see it because I don’t go in here.
I make a mental note to call my other cousin, Sevino, who works in forensics, and have this analyzed.
Just as I’m about to text Dominic and let him know what I’ve discovered, the doorbell rings.
Looking at my phone, I see it’s the mailman. Stepping over the footprint, I head downstairs and open the door.
The mailman stands on the porch with his clipboard in hand.
“Good afternoon, Miss Capuano. I got a package here for you.”
He hands me a brown box with no return address.
“Do you know who sent this package?” I ask.
“No, ma'am, there’s no return address.”
“Thank you.” I sign for it and close the door.
I carry the box into the living room. This box looks very familiar, like the one that was sent here last time.
The one from the person who wants me dead.
Setting the box down on the coffee table, I’m praying it’s not another dead snake.
I shake the box and I hear a slight thud.
I tap the box but nothing moves.
I should wait for somebody to come and inspect the box first, but I can’t wait.
Grabbing a pair of scissors, I slice open the tape. Then I wedge my fingers underneath to rip open the box.
