Two minutes. It might as well have been two lifetimes.
“Daniel, please,” the woman’s voice whispered from the hallway. I could hear her pacing, the sharp click-clack of her stilettos stuttering on the hardwood. “The car is packed. We have the passports. If they… if they took the chicken, they’re already dead or dying. We don’t need to do this. We need to go before the neighbors notice anything!”
“Shut up, Vanessa!” Daniel hissed, his tone sharp enough to cut. “If she’s in there, she has her phone. If she called anyone, we’re ruined before we even reach the state line. I need to make sure. I need to see them.”
The utter coldness in his voice shattered the last remaining fragment of my heart. This was the man who had kissed me goodbye before work every morning. The man who had coached Noah’s little league team. He wasn’t trying to hide his crime out of panic; he wanted to confirm his success. To him, we were just loose ends on a balance sheet that needed to be zeroed out.
Thud.
He threw his shoulder against the door. The old brass lock jingled, the wood splintering slightly around the frame.
Noah jolted, a sudden, violent convulsion racking his small frame. He gagged. I knew the signs—the poison was rejecting his stomach, but if he vomited loudly, Daniel would know exactly where we were positioned behind the door. Terrified, I forced my own hand over his mouth, weeping silently as my son choked back the fluid, his tears scalding hot against my palms.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I mouthed into his hair, my heart shattering into a million pieces.
Thud!
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