Chapter 78 Break the Deadlock
Chapter 78 Break the Deadlock
Day Seven
Kyle was still in that chair, the door shut tight, the lock twisted twice. The key sat dead center on the table, its brass surface catching a dull gleam from the light seeping through the curtain gap. He hadn't slept all night—his eyelids were heavy, but his spine stayed straight, never once leaning back against the chair. His phone lit up on the coffee table, the glow hitting the arm of the couch. He reached for it.
A message from Seer: [He says—what does that key open?]
Kyle stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a beat before he typed: [Take a guess.]
The reply came fast: [He says—if you won't tell him, he'll have someone look into it.]
[They won't find anything. The key's mine. Only I know what it locks.]
Seer went quiet for maybe half a minute. Then a new message popped up, the tone like it was lifted straight from Klaus's mouth: [He says—you're bluffing.]
Kyle didn't respond. He set the phone down, screen-up on the coffee table, then stood and walked to the mantel. Birth certificate, crayon box, textbook, sketchbook—lined up perfectly. He took the key from the table and placed it back on the mantel with the rest, edges aligned. He stepped back, looked it over, then turned and sat back down. The living room was silent except for the wall clock ticking steadily. Outside, the night was thick as ink.
Around two in the morning, the window rattled. Not the wind—this sound carried the faint scrape of metal on metal, someone working a tool against the latch. Kyle's eyes opened. He'd been leaning back in the chair, never fully asleep. He stood, his hand finding the knife handle at his back, his footsteps barely making a sound. The kitchen window—he'd forgotten to close it yesterday. The pane was pushed open a crack, and a hand slipped in from outside, black sleeve, thin wrist, knuckles gripping the frame as it lifted. The whole window swung open, and a figure climbed through, dressed in a black hoodie, the hood pulled low, face hidden. Their feet hit the floor almost soundlessly, toes first, then the soles easing down. They crouched for two seconds, like they were waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness inside.
Kyle stood in the doorway to the living room, watching. He didn't move. Didn't make a sound. The figure straightened, caught Kyle in their peripheral vision, and whipped around. Their hand went to their back, pulling out a knife—short blade, black, coated with matte paint so it wouldn't catch the light. The handle was wrapped in black tape, gripped tight.
Kyle didn't move. He was waiting for them to make the first move. The figure hesitated for maybe a second, then lunged, the knife sweeping upward from below, aimed at his gut. Kyle sidestepped, the blade grazing his ribs, slicing through his shirt—the cotton split, and his skin registered a brief chill. His left hand shot out and grabbed the intruder's wrist, his thumb pressing into the pulse point. His right hand flipped the knife handle around and swung it at their face. They jerked their head to the side, and the handle cracked into their ear with a dull thud. Blood spurted from the edge of their ear and splattered onto Kyle's hand, warm. The intruder didn't retreat—their knee came up fast and precise. Kyle pulled his abdomen back, the knee slamming into the outside of his thigh. The impact sent a jolt of numbness through his leg. The intruder's knife slipped from their grip in that instant. Kyle kicked it away, and the short blade skidded across the floor, hitting the baseboard in the corner.
The intruder's left hand clamped onto Kyle's wrist and wouldn't let go. Their right hand balled into a fist and swung. Kyle tilted his head, and the fist smashed into the wall. Knuckles met plaster with a sharp crack. The intruder bit down, didn't make a sound, but their mouth twitched. Kyle's knife came up in his right hand, the tip pressing into their throat, breaking skin. Blood beaded along the blade and dripped down onto the front of their black hoodie, soaking into the fabric, invisible against the color.
"Who sent you?"
The intruder didn't answer. Their breathing was heavy, their throat moving faintly under the blade.
Kyle pushed the knife forward an inch. The cut deepened, blood flowing faster, running down their neck and into their collar.
"Klaus?"
The intruder nodded. Their throat shifted as they did, and the blade wobbled slightly. Their eyes were wide, pupils dilated in the dark, impossible to make out the color.
"What are you here for?"
"The key." The voice was hoarse, like it had been scraped out from the deepest part of their throat.
Kyle stared at them for about two seconds. Then he pulled the knife back and took a step away. As the blade left their throat, a thin line of blood remained, still seeping. The intruder was clutching their ear, blood leaking through their fingers and running down their neck. Their hand was trembling—just barely.
"Go back and tell him. The key's in my hands. If he wants it, he can come get it himself. Send someone to steal it again, and I'll kill them. Not a threat. I mean it."
The intruder turned and climbed back out through the kitchen window. When they landed, they stumbled, and the sound of hurried footsteps faded into the distance. Kyle walked to the window, pulled it shut, latched it, and twisted the lock to make sure it was secure. He turned and sat back down, hands resting on his knees. The two knives at his back pressed against him, cold. There was blood on his hand—the intruder's. He glanced down, wiped it off with his thumb, smearing it on his pant leg. A dark red mark lingered on the back of his hand, gradually fading until only a faint stain remained.
Irene came down from upstairs, wearing a gray sweater, her hair loose. She was barefoot as she walked to the center of the living room and stopped in front of Kyle.
"Kyle. Did someone break in?"
"Yes. For the key."
"Where are they?"
"Gone."
---
"Kyle. Are you taking her today?"
"Yes."
By the time he got back from dropping Amy off, the sun had risen, its light slanting across Maple Street, stretching the shadows of the houses long and thin. Kyle pushed open the door. Irene was standing by the window, her fingers resting on the sill, the curtain pulled aside just a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table, the red ball of yarn beside her, noticeably smaller than before. On the floor was a white envelope—no postmark, no signature, the edges neat, like it had been carefully placed there. Kyle bent down, picked it up, and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, printed, one line: 'You can't keep him. Let him go.'
He folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket, then walked to the table and sat down. He picked up his phone and sent a message to Seer: [Tell him. Next time someone tries to steal it, I kill them. Not a threat. I'm telling him.]
Seer replied instantly: [He says—you wouldn't dare.]
Kyle typed: [Try me.]
Then he set the phone down. Irene walked over from the window and sat across from him.
"Kyle. Will he send someone again?"
"Yes."
"What will you do?"
Kyle stood and walked to the mantel, picking up the key and closing it in his palm. The brass edges warmed against his skin as he held it. He walked back and sat down, placing the key on the table. Then he stared at it for a while, picked it back up, bent down, and threaded it through the laces of his right shoe, tying a tight knot. He stood. After a moment's thought, he crouched back down, undid it, and threaded it through the thin cord around his neck instead, tying another tight knot. The key rested against his chest, the cold metal seeping through his shirt and pressing into his collarbone.
"I'll wait for him. Every time he sends someone, I'll fight them off. Until he stops."
She nodded. Said nothing. Kyle looked at the door. It was shut, locked. Klaus had sent someone to steal the key. They'd failed. He'd let them go. Next time, he wouldn't. Klaus didn't believe him. If he wanted to test it, Kyle would prove it. He sat there, the door shut, the key warming against his chest.
His phone lit up again. A message from Seer: [He says—what's that around your neck?]
Kyle glanced down at his chest. The key rested against his skin, the cord digging into the back of his neck. He walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. The street corner was empty, the streetlights already off. Maple Street was quiet in the morning—no people, no cars. But Klaus knew he was wearing the key. He had to be watching, somehow, in a way Kyle couldn't see—a long-range lens, a drone, or maybe just sitting behind some window.
Kyle typed: [Take a guess.]
[He says—you're wearing it around your neck because you're afraid it'll get stolen?]
[Not afraid. Telling you. The key's on me. If you want it, come find me.]
Seer went quiet for a long time. Kyle set the phone on the windowsill, his hand dropping to his side. The light outside fell across the screen, washing it white. Then it lit up again.
[He says—you'll regret this.]
Kyle didn't respond. He picked up the phone, walked back, and sat down, placing it on the coffee table. Irene looked at him.
"Kyle. What did he say?"
"He said I'll regret it."
"Will you?"
Kyle pressed his hand to his chest, over the key. Hard, warm, resting against the skin above his heart. He held it there for a moment, feeling its shape—the jagged teeth pressing into his fingertip, the round hole in the handle settling into the hollow of his collarbone.
"No."