15. A Door Left Open #2
A minute later, Tobias’s footsteps returned to the foyer. He rejoined Lavinia near the entryway. The solid oak front door swung open on its massive hinges.
The door slammed shut, the metal latch engaging with a resounding clack.
The impact vibrated up the walls and through the floorboards beneath my slippers. The house fell into a sprawling, empty silence. The alibi was set in stone. They were off the premises.
But I knew they couldn’t resist a front-row seat. They would never just drive to the pharmacy and wait for a phone call. I knew exactly what they were going to do next. They would park down the street, wait in the cold, and sneak back through the side door just to watch me suffer.
I pushed up from the rocking chair, balancing Petra’s warm weight against my shoulder. The floorboards creaked softly beneath my feet as I crossed the woven rug.
I reached the wooden crib and leaned over the rail, lowering her onto the mattress. I held my palms pressed beneath her back for a long moment, waiting for her to adjust to the new surface. She released a soft, shuddering sigh. Her tiny fists curled near her chin.
I adjusted the blanket around her small frame, tucking the edges tightly against her sides.
“Stay asleep, sweetheart,” I whispered.
I gripped the smooth wood of the crib rail. I lingered over the mattress, studying the peaceful curve of her cheek. My enemies were moving outside the house, waiting for me to eat the poison, but this square of space remained untouched. She is safe.
I released the crib rail and walked out into the second-floor hallway. My fingers closed over the brass knob. I pulled the oak door toward the jamb, stopping before the latch could click.
Bastien stood in the center of the corridor. His dark suit blended into the ambient shadows of the hall. He watched my hand on the doorknob.
“Leave a small gap,” he said, keeping his voice at a low murmur. “We need to hear if she wakes during the operation.”
“She’s settled,” I replied.
I released the door handle and let my hands drop to my sides.
Bastien gave a curt nod and raised his hand, gesturing toward the stairwell landing.
A man in a dark charcoal suit stepped out from the shadows of the stairwell.
The syndicate guard crossed the carpeted runner, placing his steps with calculated precision.
He stationed himself in front of the nursery door.
He clasped his hands behind his back. He squared his shoulders, planting his feet in a rigid, unmoving stance. Seeing the man block the frame broke the tension in my neck. My shoulders dropped. The barrier was set.
Bastien reached for his belt and unclipped his tactical radio. He pressed his thumb against the side button. The near-silent click of the mic engaging was the only sound in the hallway.
“All exterior units,” Bastien said into the radio. “Fall back from the perimeter line. Clear the east lawn.”
A garbled voice replied through his earpiece, confirming the maneuver.
“Pull away from the side entrance,” Bastien continued. “Leave the pathway exposed. Let them walk right up to the house.”
The radio crackled again with a second confirmation.
“Do not engage,” Bastien ordered. “They need an open path to the side door. Out.”
He released the button and secured the radio back onto his belt. Tobias walked around this estate acting like a king. He believed his title gave him absolute authority over the grounds. He had no idea Bastien’s men were paving the way, silently opening the doors to the kill-box.
“She’s asleep,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on the guard. “Nobody goes in that room.”
“My man doesn’t move from this door until I give the order,” Bastien replied. “Petra is safe.”
I let out a slow exhale, staring at the closed door. The paralysis of waiting broke. The plotting phase was done.
“Okay. I’m going to my bedroom. Let’s finish this.”
I turned my back to the syndicate guard standing watch and walked down the second-floor hallway.
My slippers dragged over the thick hallway carpet. Every step pulled me further from my sleeping daughter and closer to the trap. The estate fell into a vast, hollow quiet now that Tobias and Lavinia were gone. I did not trust the silence.
I walked through the doorway into the master bedroom. I crossed the Persian rug and stopped at the edge of the king-sized bed. I lowered myself down, flattening the duvet cover before letting my weight sink into the mattress. I folded my hands in my lap.
Bastien stood in the hallway just outside the doorframe, his broad shoulders blocking the hallway light. He pulled the radio from his waistband and brought it to his mouth.
“Bring Beaumont in,” Bastien said into the receiver. “The targets are clear.”
A brief hiss of static answered him. Bastien clipped the radio back onto his waistband. He stepped into the bedroom, his boots silent on the carpet. We waited in the breathless quiet of the master suite.
Two minutes passed before Dr. Beaumont appeared in the doorway. The doctor wore an unassuming gray sweater and carried his black leather medical bag. The brass zippers on the bag remained silent as he walked.
None of us spoke. Every sound felt like a risk. Beaumont crossed the rug first, his rubber soles noiseless against the hardwood border near the bathroom. He disappeared into the en-suite walk-in closet without looking at me.
Bastien followed him. As he walked past the footboard, his dark eyes locked onto mine. The stoic mask of the syndicate boss slipped for a split second, revealing a flash of raw apprehension.
He despised this plan. He hated hiding in the shadows, waiting for the moment I would have to swallow the spiked food. I offered him a single, rigid nod. He broke eye contact, his jaw set, and turned toward the closet.
Bastien pulled the heavy wooden door toward the jamb, stopping it before the metal latch could click. The sudden barrier left me completely alone on the bed. Bastien kept the door open a fraction of an inch. A narrow line of shadow remained visible near the frame.
“I’m in position,” Bastien whispered through the crack. “Audio is live. Beaumont is right behind me, and Loxley is holding the perimeter downstairs.”
I stared at that narrow gap in the woodwork. The men stood mere feet away, yet once that door clicked shut, I was completely alone. I squeezed my hands together in my lap, clenching my fingers until my knuckles ached.
The memory of the damp safehouse crept into my mind. I recalled the sudden burn in my throat. I remembered the desperate, high-pitched gasp for oxygen.
I remembered the black spots swallowing the harsh overhead bulb as I collapsed over the concrete floor drain. I was about to invite that exact horror back into my body.
Just a few minutes of pain, I told myself. Then you’ll be the ones who suffer. Come on. Bring me the tray.
I rubbed the woven seam of my maternity pants with my thumb.
The micro-cameras sat completely hidden inside the decorative trim above, recording every angle of the room.
The trap was armed. I kept my fingers tightly clasped, staring at the empty space on the mattress as I braced myself for the agony to come.