Chapter 6 - The Voice in the Dark
Harper backed away from the door, clutching the gun in both hands, her back pressed against the far wall of the small bathroom. Emma cowered behind her, squeezing her eyes shut.
"He's lying, Emma. He's lying," Harper whispered, though her heart was slamming violently against her ribs.
"I'm not lying, Harper!" Tyrell kicked the door, making the heavy hinges groan. "You really thought a gangster cared about you? He wanted the drive! Just like I want the drive! You're nothing, Harper! You're just a schoolteacher who got lucky for eight months!"
Another kick. The frame splintered.
Harper raised the pistol, lining up the sight with the center of the door panel. Her finger rested on the trigger. Everything inside her—years of fear, months of running, the memory of her dead sister—crystallized into a sharp, cold rage.
"Leave... us... alone!"
The voice was small, raspy, and raw from disuse, but it rang through the small room like a bell.
Harper froze, looking down in utter shock. Emma was standing beside her. Her little fists were clenched at her sides, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with fiery defiance. It was Emma who had spoken.
Before Tyrell could kick the door a third time, a deafening crash echoed from the living room, followed by the sound of a body hitting the wall with brutal force.
A guttural snarl filled the hallway, accompanied by the wet, heavy thud of a hand-to-hand fight. Lorenzo’s voice roared through the dynamic: "You don't touch my family!"
A single gunshot echoed. Then silence.
Harper held her breath. Seconds stretched into eternity. The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackle of burning wood from the living room fireplace.
Then came three soft thumps against the bottom of the door. A familiar, low whine sounded from the other side.
Harper rushed to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled it open.
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Nero stood there, bleeding from a superficial graze on his shoulder, his tail wagging slowly. Behind him, Lorenzo was leaning against the wall, holding a blood-soaked cloth to his side, his face pale but his eyes alive with cold victory.
On the floor ten feet away, Tyrell lay unconscious, disarmed, his leg crushed from Nero's initial tackle, bound tightly with steel zip-ties.
