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He fit the key into the lock with trembling hands and pushed inside. Standing in the foyer, he paused, listening for activity. Silence. He stood a few moments longer, savoring the familiar smells of his family and their home. He moved quietly to the bottom of the staircase and paused again. His feet felt as heavy as cinder blocks when he set them on the first stair, the pistol as dense as a dumbbell in his hand.
His brain screamed as he used the banister to haul himself up the stairs, frantically recalculating one last time. But the Voice had been clear—his family would be horrifically tortured and then gruesomely killed. He forced his feet onward.
Then, he was standing just inside their master bedroom.
Shay was awake, propped on the bed, still in her business clothes, at work on her laptop.
God, she’s beautiful. His resolve wavered. For twenty years, he had been the luckiest man in the world. But sooner or later, luck always runs out.
Then he realized she was staring at him. At the gun in his hand. He was committed.
Shay’s eyes went cold. Chase had seen that look before. She was running the numbers too, but never before had he been the threat she was calculating. The pieces of his already broken heart crumbled.
When she spoke, her voice was soft. “You don’t have to do this, Chase.”
She gripped the laptop—to put it to the side? Or fling it at him? He raised the pistol. She released the laptop and let her hands fall to the bed.
“It’s just… I’ve run the numbers, Shay. There’s no other choice. I’m sorry.”
“Think of the kids.”
“Don’t.” Chase swallowed and looked away.
“You son of a bitch,” she hissed. “Look at me, you coward!”
He looked her in the eye, saw her fury.
“I have to. It’s the only way.”
“Please,” she pleaded. “Don’t do this.”
“I’ll always love you, Shay.”
He fired, twice. The noise was shattering. Despite having fired many weapons in his lifetime, no other shots had startled him like this. He backed away as Shay fell onto her mound of pillows.
He heard commotion from the bedrooms, the sound of feet hitting the floor.
The children, he thought.
Chase was sobbing as he headed for them. The job was only half finished.
CHAPTER 17
CHASE FLED. NOT into the street, but deeper into his home.
Climbing the steps, his feet had felt leaden, but now he felt light and feverish. He caught himself on the banister as he slipped and stumbled on the stairs like he no longer had control over his own limbs. When he reached the first floor, he wheeled through the hallway into their large kitchen and found the light switch to the basement with a shaking hand. He descended, closing the door behind him, as if he could somehow shut out what he had just done.
Boxes and clear plastic tubs were stacked against the far wall, loaded with holiday decorations, old electronic equipment, paint cans. He shoved them aside to reveal a steel door that resembled a ship’s hatch. Chase swung the heavy door wide, its hinges groaning like the roar of a giant awakening. A cool breeze blew through the basement, and Chase stared into a black hole.
He walked headlong into the darkness, breathing deeply to slow his heartbeat. He switched on the flashlight function of his phone and pointed it farther down the dark passageway.
DC’s robust Metro system had over fifty miles of tunnels beneath the District and surrounding suburbs, but its abandoned streetcar tunnels were more esoteric. Chase had been unaware of them until he and Shay originally moved to the District. He’d been delighted to find the weird hatch-like door in the basement, connecting to a network of dark underground tunnels, when they first looked at the townhouse.
In 1949, the District had built a trolley system below Dupont Circle, with tunnels and platforms, running from N Street to the south and R Street to the north. But after little more than a decade in use, the entire streetcar system was shut down, made obsolete by the rise of automobiles. The massive subterranean space had been more or less abandoned since the ’60s, despite various attempts to revive the space: as a fallout shelter depot in the 1970s, an underground food court in the 1990s, most recently as a contemporary art installation space.
As a man who had spent most of his adult life assessing risks and looking for contingencies, Chase counted any escape hatch as a positive sign. “Boys and their secret tunnels,” Shay had muttered. Still, it was a beautiful home in a great neighborhood, so she’d agreed… with the caveat that she would murder without hesitation any derelict who ascended from their basement, making Chase her next victim.
He felt an overwhelming pang at the memory of her dark joke. Neither of them could have predicted that the greatest threat to their family would come from Chase himself.
