“He took your car keys,” Eli said. “He always takes them.”
Always.
He ran to the mudroom and pulled out a small remote.
“Service gate,” he said.
It would have been enough to run then. It should have been.
But I needed answers.
“What else?”
Eli looked toward Daniel’s office.
Inside, everything smelled like order and control—leather, cedar, expensive cologne. He pressed a hidden latch under the desk, and a panel clicked open. Inside: a flash drive, a passport, insurance documents… and a folder with my name on it.
I opened it.
Life insurance. My signature forged.
Beneficiary: Daniel Whitmore.
Date: eight days ago.
Behind it—files on two other women. Notes. Timelines. Cold observations: isolated, vulnerable, no nearby family.
I shoved everything into my bag.
“Go.”
We ran across the yard toward the service road. Eli kept pace beside me—steady, practiced.
“My mom didn’t die from pills,” he said suddenly.
I looked at him.
“She was screaming before,” he whispered.
The gate opened.
We reached the narrow road just as a deep, hollow sound rolled behind us—like the house itself was breathing in.
Then the windows exploded outward.
I pulled Eli down as the shockwave hit.
The house went up in flames.