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I barely register what happens next. The explosion of sound and movement that comes out of nowhere. They’re boots pounding back down the hall and the sirens whirling in the distance. My body acting of its own freeze, flight or fight instincts, and leaping back into the closet as they return to the living room.
They’re in too of a rush to notice the slit I’ve left in the door.
“What about the girl? Bill said he has a caretaker that lives with him—”
“You hear those sirens, dumbass? The law’s on the way!”
“We got it done. That’s all that matters.”
They bolt out the door, fleeing the scene into the night. By the time I scurry from the closet to the nearest window, they’re already gone.
But the cops are pulling up. Their red-and-blue sirens flash and car doors burst open. I meet them at the door, speechless and dazed in my nightshirt, with the sobering reality of what’s happened.
Pop’s dead.
TO BE CONTINUED
