Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Garage
-2-
The faint, mechanical hum of the refrigerator felt deafening in the silence of the kitchen. Every second that ticked by felt like an eternity as I lay pinned to the cold tile, forcing my nervous system to restart against the deadening grip of the sedative. Beside me, Oliver’s breathing remained shallow and controlled, a testament to the remarkable survival instinct buried deep within his eight-year-old soul.
From the other side of the heavy wooden door leading to the garage, a low, metallic scraping sound broke the quiet.
Clank. Squeak.
I strained my ears, ignoring the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through my fingertips as blood slowly began to circulate back into my paralyzed limbs. Ethan was moving something heavy out in the garage. Through the frosted glass panels of the interior door, I caught the rhythmic flickering of amber light—the distinct signature of a portable propane heater or perhaps a halogen work light being positioned near our secondary chest freezer.
Why would Ethan need a halogen light in the middle of the night? Unless he wasn't just cleaning up. Unless he was preparing to move our bodies.
The horrifying realization sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through my veins, burning away the lingering fog of the drug. If Ethan planned to dispose of us before morning, waiting here passively until our strength returned was a death sentence. We had a window—narrow, dangerous, and closing fast—while he was distracted in the garage.
I gently turned my head toward Oliver, keeping my voice down to a harsh, barely audible whisper.
“Oliver, listen to me very carefully,” I breathed, reaching out to graze my fingertips against his small hand. “Can you move your toes?”
Oliver blinked, concentrating fiercely. A second later, his small sneaker shifted slightly against the floor. “A little bit,” he whispered back, his eyes wide with terror and determination.
“Good. That means the medicine is wearing off,” I said, gritting my teeth as a sharp spasm of pain shot up my forearms. “When I say go, we aren't going to stand up right away. Our legs won't hold us. We’re going to crawl toward the pantry. Do you understand?”
“The pantry?” Oliver whispered, his gaze darting toward the narrow larder door tucked behind the refrigerator.
“Yes. There’s an old landline wall-jack in there from the previous owners. Sometimes older security systems keep an analog line active even if the main house power or cell repeaters are jammed,” I explained, though I knew it was a desperate long shot. More importantly, the pantry had a heavy solid-core door that could be bolted from the inside—a temporary fortress if Ethan re-entered the kitchen too soon.
Before Oliver could reply, the scraping noise in the garage stopped abruptly.
The heavy interior door clicked.
Panic surged through my chest like a lightning bolt. Without thinking about the burning agony in my muscles, I grabbed Oliver by the collar of his shirt and dragged him across the slick tile floor, sliding into the narrow gap between the kitchen island and the base cabinets just as the door handle began to turn.
The door swung inward with a soft, ominous creak.
Ethan stepped back into the kitchen. The amber glow of the garage light framed his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette, casting a long, distorted shadow across the dining table. He wasn't holding cleaning supplies anymore. In his right hand, he carried a heavy, black canvas duffel bag—a bag that sagged heavily with the unmistakable weight of dense, bulky objects.
He didn't look toward the floor where we had been lying just moments before. Instead, his gaze went straight to the dining table.
I held my breath, pressing my hand firmly over Oliver’s mouth to muffle any sound of his rapid breathing. My heart hammered so violently against my ribs I was certain Ethan could hear it echoing off the kitchen walls.
Ethan walked over to the table. I peeked around the edge of the cabinet base, my vision tunneling with adrenaline.
He reached out and picked up the blue plate containing the remaining bites of poisoned beef bourguignon. He didn't drop it into the trash can. Instead, he carefully scraped the leftover food into a plastic Ziploc bag he had pulled from his jacket pocket, sealing the contents airtight. Then, he grabbed our drinking glasses, wiping down the rims with a microfiber cloth before dropping them into the heavy duffel bag.
He was erasing us. Not just our bodies, but any physical trace that we had ever eaten that meal, that we had ever sat at that table, that we had ever existed in this house.
When he finished clearing the table, Ethan stood completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He turned his head slowly, scanning the kitchen. His eyes swept across the open floor where we had collapsed, lingering for a fraction of a second on the empty space near the island.
A frown touched his lips. He took two steps forward, his leather shoes clicking against the tile, stopping just inches from where Oliver and I crouched in the shadows behind the cabinet base.
My fingers instinctively dug into the wood grain of the floorboards. I braced myself, praying for enough strength in my legs to lunge forward if he peered around the corner.
Then, a sudden, sharp chime rang out from the front hallway.
Ethan’s phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, breaking the suffocating tension of the kitchen.
Ethan froze. He pulled out the device, glancing at the illuminated screen. A dark, irritated scowl darkened his features as he read the incoming message. Without checking the floor again, he turned on his heel, muttering a harsh curse under his breath, and strode briskly toward the front entryway, letting the heavy front door slam shut behind him as he stepped outside to take the call.
The front door clicked locked.
We were alone. For now.
May you like
I let out a shaky, shuddering breath, my muscles trembling with exhaustion. I looked down at Oliver, whose face was pale, his eyes wide with un-childlike terror.
“Now,” I whispered, my voice fierce and resolute. “We move.”
