Chapter 11 - The Knock in the Dark
Three weeks passed.
The silence of my townhouse was no longer just an absence of sound; it had become a physical presence that pressed against my temples day and night.
I had twelve million dollars left. I could buy houses, sports cars, islands. I could travel to any continent on a private charter. Instead, I spent my days wandering through empty rooms, ordering takeout that I threw away half-eaten, and checking my phone every ten minutes for notifications that never came.
My family had vanished from my life with surgical precision.
Mike had changed his business number. Natalie had moved Chloe into a quiet, tree-lined apartment complex across town, and when I tried to send flowers for Chloe’s fifth birthday, the delivery was returned marked *REFUSED BY ADDRESSEE*. Mom and Dad had changed their landline.
I was wealthy beyond comprehension, and completely invisible.
It was a Tuesday night, just past midnight. A violent autumn storm was battering the city, rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my modern living room, thunder rolling in low, heavy rumbles that shook the glass.
I was sitting on the floor with a glass of bourbon, watching the headlights of distant cars move along the highway below, when three sharp, heavy knocks hammered against my front door.
I froze.
Nobody ever came to my townhouse. The complex had a guarded security gate, and visitors had to be buzzed in through the intercom system in the lobby. The intercom hadn't chimed.
The knocks came again—louder this time, frantic, erratic, accompanied by the muffled sound of a hand slapping against the wood.
I set the glass down, my heart pounding against my ribs, and walked slowly to the foyer.
"Who is it?" I called out, keeping the deadbolt locked.
No answer. Just the sound of heavy, ragged breathing on the other side of the heavy mahogany slab.
I leaned in and looked through the peephole.
The dim hallway light revealed a figure drenched in rain, hair plastered to a pale face, clothes soaked through and clinging to a trembling frame.
It was Greg—Natalie’s ex-husband.
His eyes were wide, blown out with absolute terror. A dark, jagged cut split his forehead, blood mixing with rainwater and dripping down his cheek onto the collar of his jacket.
Before I could back away, he hit the door with both fists, screaming through the wood:
"Jess! Open the door! God damn it, open the door! They took her!"
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My blood turned to ice. "What are you talking about? Who took who?"
"Chloe!" Greg sobbed, his voice cracking into a shrill, hysterical shriek that echoed down the empty corridor. "They know about the money, Jess! They found out about the trust! Open the door before they kill her!"
