Chapter 74: Breaking Through the Door

Chapter 74: Breaking Through the Door

Day three. Kyle still sat in that chair. The door stood open, the light from outside fading and brightening again as another day passed. The corner remained empty—nothing had appeared there all day. He hadn't slept. His hands lay flat on his knees, palms down. Hours in the same position left his back stiff, but he didn't shift.

His phone lit up on the coffee table. He grabbed it, the white glow illuminating his face.

[He sent two men. Arriving tonight.]

[What are they carrying?] he typed back.

The reply came fast. [Knives. Same as the ones you saw before.]

Kyle set the phone down. The screen went dark, and the living room sank back into dusk. He stood, walked to the door, and pulled it wider. Then he stepped down onto the brick pavement in front of the house. The corner sat empty. The streetlight had already come on, a small hazy glow floating beneath its shade. He stood there as the wind picked up, stirring the hem of his shirt. After a moment, he turned and walked back inside. The door stayed open.

He returned to the living room and sat down. The chair was still warm.

Ten p.m. Headlights arrived first. The beams swung around the corner onto Maple Street, sweeping across the asphalt, across the front steps, finally stopping dead center in the doorframe. The brake squealed briefly, like someone had cut it short. A car door opened and closed. Two men walked from the corner, black jackets catching a dull sheen under the streetlight, leather shoes striking the pavement with steady, deliberate steps.

Kyle stood. He walked to the door and stopped on the top step. He didn't go any farther.

The two men stopped across the street. The streetlight stretched their shadows long, all the way to Kyle's feet. One was taller, one shorter. Both had their hands hanging at their sides—empty, but the backs of their jackets bulged at the waist.

"Raven. My employer sent us to get the list." The taller one spoke first. His voice wasn't loud, but the street was quiet. Every word came through clear.

"Tell him to come himself," Kyle said.

"He's not coming."

Kyle stepped down and stood in the middle of the street. The streetlight shone down from above, his shadow pooling at his feet. He reached back, drew his knife from behind his waist, and flipped his wrist so the blade faced out. The two men exchanged a glance. The shorter one's lips moved, as if he'd started to say something, then thought better of it. They drew their knives. Two blades flashed under the streetlight, a quick jump of silver-white.

"You're alone. We've got two knives. You can't stop us," the tall one said.

Kyle took a step forward. His sole scraped the asphalt with a short, sharp sound. "I can."

The shorter man moved first. He charged, fast, knife raised over his shoulder, coming down in a slash. Kyle lifted his blade to block. The two knives collided, metal biting metal, a spray of tiny sparks bursting out and dying mid-air.

The man stepped back, his heel barely planted before he lunged again. This time the knife came horizontal, slicing toward Kyle's side. Kyle twisted. The tip grazed under his ribs, tearing a line through the fabric. The edge scraped his skin, leaving a cold sting in its wake.

His left hand clamped down on the man's wrist. His right hand reversed the knife, driving the pommel forward. The joint smashed into the center of the man's face. The man jerked his head—too slow. The pommel hit his nose square on. Blood came instantly, gushing from his nostrils, spattering across the front of his jacket. The man fell back, hand clutching his face. Blood leaked between his fingers, dripping onto the asphalt. One drop after another.

The man on the right stood across the street, unmoving. His knife was still in his hand, hanging loose, as if he'd forgotten to raise it. Kyle looked at him. "Your turn."

The man slid his knife back behind his waist and turned. He walked away. A car door opened and closed. Headlights flared. The beams swept once as the car rounded the corner, then disappeared. The engine sound faded, until all that was left was the wind on the street.

One man lay on the ground, hand over his face, breathing hard. Blood kept leaking through his fingers.

Kyle crouched down. He took the knife from the man's hand and tucked it behind his own waist. Two knives now, pressed against his spine. The cold of the metal seeped through his shirt. He stood, turned, and walked back toward the house. On the top step, he paused and looked back—the man had already crawled to his feet, hunched over, one hand covering his face, stumbling toward the corner. His footsteps grew fainter, then got swallowed by the wind.

Kyle turned and went inside. The door stayed open. He walked back and sat down.

The chair was still warm. Irene came down from upstairs, barefoot, her steps nearly silent on the wooden stairs. She crouched in front of him, fingers pulling aside the torn fabric at his ribs—a rip in the cotton, the skin underneath intact, no blood. She stood, walked back, and sat down without a word.

Kyle looked at the door. It stood open, streetlight slanting in from outside, spreading a trapezoid of light across the floor. On the asphalt below the steps, a few dark spots marked the pavement, black under the streetlight. He stood, walked to the door, and crouched down. His index finger pressed against one of the bloodstains. Dry. It had hardened into a small crust. He rubbed his finger against the cement edge of the step a few times until the dark red smear was gone. Then he stood, closed the door. The bolt clicked as it slid into the strike plate.

He walked back and sat down.

"Not waiting anymore?" Irene asked.

"No. If he comes, he'll knock," he said.

She didn't say anything else.

Dawn came slowly. First, the edges of the curtains turned gray. Then a hint of blue bled through the gray. Then the condensation on the windowsill began to gleam. Kyle stood and walked to the window, hooking a finger around the curtain to pull it aside. The corner was empty. The streetlight hadn't gone out yet. Beneath its glow, the few drops of blood had dried to a dark red, embedded in the fine cracks of the asphalt.

When he dropped Amy off, she ran into the school building. At the door, she turned and looked at him for two seconds. She didn't wave. She didn't call out. She just looked, then pushed through the door.

Kyle turned and started back. At the corner, he stopped and crouched down, his finger brushing one of the bloodstains—dry now, like a small flake of black paint set into the pavement. He rubbed his fingertip against the concrete edge of the curb until it came clean. Then he stood and kept walking.

He pushed the door open. Irene stood by the window, her fingers resting on the sill. Dorothy sat at the dining table knitting, the needles moving through the red yarn in a steady rhythm that never changed. The living room was quiet except for the faint click of the needles.

Kyle walked to the mantel, picked up the textbook, and opened it to the title page. Two stick figures stood side by side, both smiling. The crayon colors were still bright. He closed it and set it back. He walked back and sat down, then picked up his phone.

He typed. [Tell him. Next time, I keep whoever he sends.]

Send. The screen went dark, then lit up again. Seer's reply came fast. A line appeared: [He says—you can't.]

Kyle stared at the line. He paused for a few seconds. Then he typed, each letter pressed hard: [Try me.]