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And soon enough, so would they.
As the family settled onto the plush couch, popcorn bowls in hand, the man decided the time had come to act.He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders and crawled out from beneath the bushes, moving toward the house with purpose.
His anger and anticipation mounted with each step, heart pounding as he crept across the manicured lawn.Sticking to the shadows, the man moved silently—like a predator stalking its prey.He couldn't risk alerting them to his presence; he needed the element of surprise to pull off his grim plan.
Can't wait to see the looks on their faces,he thought to himself, unable to suppress the cold grin that spread across his face.They'll know true fear then.
He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself.This was it, the culmination of weeks of planning, the point of no return.He pulled his hat down low over his forehead, ensuring his face would be obscured from any prying eyes.
"Time to show these bastards what they've got coming," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper as he stepped out of the shadows and approached the house.
His heart pounded in his chest as he inched closer to the side of the house, careful not to disturb any of the manicured plants adorning it.He could hear the Warrens' laughter from inside, their merriment almost enough to make him sick.It was a carefree, boisterous sound—one that only served to fuel his anger.
Laugh now,he thought bitterly, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.You won't be laughing when I'm through with you.The sound of their joy felt like an insult, a mockery of his own life.
He crouched beside a window, his breaths shallow and measured.Through the glass, the flickering light of the television illuminated the perfect family tableau.The parents were cuddled together on the couch while their children sprawled across the floor, giggling at the antics on screen.To the man, it was a scene that reeked of complacency and privilege.
"Time to put an end to this little charade," he muttered to himself, his voice low and venomous.With renewed determination, he slunk along the exterior wall of the house, each step deliberate and silent.
At last, he reached the back door and quickly unzipped his backpack.His fingers closed around the cold metal of the lockpicking kit, which he had practiced with for only a few hours, watching online tutorials late into the night.He knew this part of his plan was risky, but there was no turning back now.
He inserted the tension wrench into the keyhole, applying gentle pressure as he inserted the pick above it.The door's lock was a standard pin tumbler, and the man knew that finding the right angle to lift the pins would require patience and finesse.Sweat beaded on his brow as he methodically worked, trying to remember the guidance he had seen in those videos.Gradually, he felt each pin click into place, the tension wrench twisting slightly as he went.
Almost there,he thought, his breath hitching with anticipation.Just then, the sound of footsteps approaching from inside the house made him freeze.The man's heart raced as he pressed himself against the wall, praying that whoever it was wouldn't notice the door being tampered with.
Please, just keep walking,he silently pleaded as the footsteps grew louder, his fingers still gripping the tools in the lock.He couldn't afford any mistakes now.Not when he was so close to enacting his revenge on the Warrens and showing them just how fragile their perfect world truly was.
The footsteps gradually faded into the distance, and the man let out a shaky breath.His fingers were trembling as he gave the tension wrench one final turn.The lock clicked open, and a victorious grin spread across his face.But this was no time for celebration—not yet.It was time to ensure that the Warren family would never laugh so carelessly again.
Reaching into his backpack, the man pulled out a gun, feeling its cold metal against his palm.He had relied on a knife during his previous attempt, but the way Roy Hubbard had nearly thwarted his plans had taught him that he needed something more intimidating to keep the family in check.A gun would do just that—make them think twice before trying anything funny.
The man took a deep breath, gripping the gun tightly.He could still hear their laughter reverberating through the house, each peal of joy another dagger to his heart.His anger simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
"Think you're safe, Warrens?"he whispered under his breath, his voice laced with bitterness."You won't be laughing for long."
With the gun clenched firmly in his hand, the man slowly cracked the door open and slipped inside the house, careful not to make any noise.The hallway was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows on the walls, and he could hear the muffled sounds of the movie playing in the living room.Just a short distance away, a life of privilege and comfort continued, blissfully unaware of the darkness that had just entered their home.
He hurried to the alarm system, entered the code, and disarmed it.Then, relaxing, he began to make his way to the living room.
It was time to introduce himself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The break room's harsh fluorescent light flickered above, casting a cold glow on the linoleum floor.Sheila leaned against the vending machine, its hum filling the silence between questions.Finn stood nearby, arms crossed and observing.
"Tell me, Cameron," she began, her voice steady despite her growing exhaustion from the lateness of the hour."How did you know Roy Hubbard?"
Cameron Fintner smiled wistfully, his blue eyes distant as if peering into the past."We were in a band together at Mildred Heights—the Black Jesters, we called ourselves.I was the drummer, and Roy played bass.Man, those were the days."He chuckled, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.His smile revealed a boyishness that stood in sharp contrast to his tough cop exterior.
The break room buzzed with activity as officers and staff members took advantage of the brief respite from their duties.The space was cramped, filled with mismatched tables and chairs, a coffee machine that had seen better days, and a vending machine that seemed to hold a grudge against everyone who used it.The walls were adorned with faded posters detailing safety protocols and various commendations.In one corner, an old television set droned on, its flickering images casting eerie shadows across the room.
Sheila studied Cameron carefully, trying to gauge his sincerity.He seemed friendly, open even, with an easygoing demeanor that made her want to trust him instinctively.He had a square jaw and broad shoulders, a testament to years of physical training.Despite the uniform, though, he didn't seem like a typical cop—there was something about him that felt almost artistic, a spark of creativity hidden beneath the surface.
"What kind of music did you guys play?"she asked, curious to learn more about this connection between Roy and Cameron.
"Mostly punk rock and grunge," Cameron replied, his voice laced with nostalgia."We'd jam all night in Roy's garage, just letting our emotions flow through the music.It was raw, it was real."He sighed."I miss those sessions sometimes."
As Sheila listened, she couldn't help but wonder how someone like Cameron ended up working as a police officer, trading in his drumsticks for a badge and gun.People changed, she knew that, but there was something about the way he spoke of the past that made her think the transition hadn't been an easy one.
