Chapter 97 - The Sleet on the Porch
The front doorknob rattled softly.
They weren't kicking the door down yet; they were checking if the spare key Tori had handed over actually worked. I heard the faint click of a key sliding into the brass cylinder of the lock.
"The cellar," I whispered to Alistair, grabbing the oilcloth bundle and tucking it under my left arm while keeping the .38 firm in my right. "Now."
Alistair didn't hesitate. Despite his ruined leg, fear lent him unexpected speed. He moved past the staircase toward the narrow pantry door at the back of the kitchen, slipping through the threshold like a shadow.
The brass deadbolt turned with a loud, metallic clack.
The heavy front door swung open into the winter wind, letting in a blast of sub-zero air and swirling sleet. Two men stepped across the threshold. The first was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing leather gloves and holding a silenced automatic low at his side. The second was Charles Miller—a man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair, a sharp wool overcoat, and eyes as dead as river ice.
"Myrna?" Miller’s voice echoed politely into the dark foyer, carrying the chilling cheer of an insurance salesman. "You don't need to hide. We know you had a long flight from Europe. We just want to clear up a few family misunderstandings."
I was already behind the pantry door, standing at the top of the steep wooden staircase leading into the pitch-black cellar.
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"Caleb told us where Arthur kept his private safe," Miller continued, his footsteps crunching softly over the grit on the hallway floorboards. "You've been very stubborn, Myrna. Just like your husband."
I pulled the pantry door shut without a sound, slid the old iron bolt into place, and descended into the dark.
