Chapter 5 - Shadows in the Hallway
The grandfather clock in the downstairs foyer chimed two in the morning.
The farmhouse was enveloped in pitch darkness, save for the faint glow of the small nightlight plugged into the baseboard near my armchair. I had not closed my eyes for a second. My ears were tuned to every creak of the old timber, every whisper of the wind against the windowpanes.
Around two-fifteen, I heard the faint *click* of a door latch unfastening down the hall.
I didn't move. I kept my breathing slow and rhythmic, leaning back into the deep shadows of the wingback chair, letting my silhouette blend into the darkness.
A figure emerged from the master bedroom. It was Omar.
He was barefoot, dressed in black sweatpants and a dark t-shirt. He crept silently along the runner rug, glancing nervously toward the stairs. In his right hand, he held a manila envelope. In his left, a small pocket flashlight that cast a thin, hooded beam of light against the floorboards.
He stopped outside Sasha’s bedroom door.
He didn't notice me sitting five feet away in the shadow of the linen press. He reached out, gently testing the brass doorknob.
It was locked.
Omar let out a muffled curse under his breath. He pulled a thin metal tool from his pocket—a screwdriver or an old lock pick—and knelt down, preparing to force the antique skeleton lock.
"Looking for something, Omar?" I asked.
Omar jumped so hard his head struck the wooden doorframe with a hollow *thud*. He dropped the flashlight, which rolled across the floorboards, illuminating my face in a stark, upward beam.
He stumbled backward, clutching his forehead, his chest heaving with shock.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he wheezed, his voice a frantic, desperate whisper. "Are you insane? Lurking in the dark like a ghoul?"
"I could ask you the same question," I said, standing up from the armchair. At five-foot-four, I wasn't an intimidating woman physically, but the righteous fury running through my veins made me feel ten feet tall. "Why are you trying to pick the lock to your wife’s bedroom at two in the morning with tools in your hand?"
Omar scrambled to snatch the manila envelope off the floor, tucking it behind his back.
"I left my watch in there," he lied, his eyes darting frantically toward the stairs. "I need my watch. It’s an heirloom."
"Your father died in prison, Omar. You don't have heirlooms," I countered coldly. "What’s in the envelope?"
"None of your business!"
"Show me the envelope, or I call the sheriff right now for attempted home invasion and burglary," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my cell phone, holding my thumb directly over the emergency call button. "Let’s see what Deputy Vance thinks about you trying to break into a locked room in the dead of night."
Omar’s breathing grew ragged. He realized he was trapped. The sheriff was already on standby, and Omar knew that one phone call would bring a cruiser up the gravel driveway in less than seven minutes.
With an enraged snarl, he flung the manila envelope onto the floor between us.
"Take it!" he spat. "Take it, you meddling old bitch! You ruined everything! We had a deal lined up! A half-million-dollar buyout from the commercial development firm building the new bypass road! All she had to do was sign the quitclaim deed!"
I froze.
I picked up the envelope, pulled out the thick legal document inside, and used my phone's flashlight to read the title:
**SPECIAL WARRANTY QUITCLAIM DEED AND ASSIGNMENT OF ALL BENEFICIAL INTERESTS IN REAL PROPERTY.**
My eyes scanned the fine print. Omar had hired an online legal document service to draft a deed transferring 100% of Sasha’s farmhouse, land, and timber rights to *Apex Holdings LLC*—a dummy corporation registered under Omar’s name two months ago.
Below that was a notary acknowledgment sheet, already stamped by a crooked notary public with tomorrow's date.
He was planning to force her to sign it tonight. He was going to use intimidation, sleep deprivation, and psychological abuse to coerce her signature before the sheriff arrived at noon.
"You knew," I whispered, the full depth of his wickedness finally becoming clear. "You knew the state was planning a bypass road through this county. You knew the state highway commission was buying up parcels along Whispering Pines Road."
"Of course I knew!" Omar sneered, his handsome face twisting into a hideous sneer of pure greed. "Three hundred thousand dollars for the front acreage alone! And your stupid, simpleton daughter wanted to grow heirloom tomatoes and raise chickens! She’s an idiot! She was sitting on a goldmine and didn't even know it!"
"And you thought you could steal it from her," I said, my voice shaking with an intensity that made him step back.
"It’s not stealing! I'm her husband! I earned that money by putting up with her pathetic insecurities for two miserable years!"
The bedroom door clicked open behind him.
May you like
Sasha stood in the doorway. She had heard everything.
***