Chapter 16 - An Uninvited Guest on Maplewood Drive
Three days after Daniel began working on the dock, the threat moved from the shadows into the open light.
It was a Thursday afternoon, around four o'clock, when the winter sun had already begun dipping behind the ridge of pine trees.
Ellen had left the store an hour early to drive back to Maplewood Drive to prepare a large pot of chicken stew.
I was still at the store, reviewing freight bills with Tommy, when my cell phone vibrated violently against my hip.
I pulled it out and saw Ellen’s name flashing on the screen.
"Ellen, I’m wrapping up the inventory now," I said, putting the phone to my ear.
"James... come home. Right now," she whispered, her voice choked with sheer, unadulterated terror.
The line was open, and in the background, I could hear heavy, measured footsteps walking across our hardwood living room floor.
"Ellen! What is it? Who’s there?" I shouted, my heart leaping into my throat.
"He’s in the house, James," she gasped before the call abruptly ended with the sharp sound of a receiver hitting a table.
I dropped the freight bills, grabbed my heavy winter jacket, and sprinted toward the back loading dock.
"Daniel! Get in the truck!" I roared, throwing open the warehouse doors.
Daniel dropped the hand truck he was maneuvering, saw the frantic panic in my eyes, and didn't ask a single question.
We scrambled into my Ford F-250, tires screaming against the cold asphalt as I reversed out of the alley and floored the accelerator onto Main Street.
Maplewood Drive was five miles away, and I broke every speed limit in the county, running through yellow lights and fishtailing around the snow-slicked curves.
Daniel sat in the passenger seat, gripping the dashboard with his white-knuckled, splinted fingers.
"Is it Vance?" Daniel asked, his face pale with dread.
"It better not be," I growled through clenched teeth, my knuckles white against the steering wheel.
"Because if he laid a finger on your mother, they’ll have to drag me out of that house in chains."
When we tore up Maplewood Drive, my headlights swept across our front yard.
The heavy wrought-iron gate was wide open, its brass padlock severed cleanly and lying in the gravel like a discarded coin.
Parked directly in our circular driveway, blocking the front steps, was a sleek, midnight-black Mercedes sedan with tinted city plates.
I slammed the truck into park, kicked open the door, and reached into the truck bed to grab my forty-eight-inch steel pry bar.
Daniel was already out of the truck, running right beside me up the front porch steps despite his fractured hands.
The front door of our home was unlocked.
I kicked it open with a deafening crash that shook the windowpanes in the foyer.
Standing in the middle of our warm, yellow-painted living room was Ronald Vance.
He was wearing his tailored charcoal coat, casually holding a cup of Ellen’s steaming chicken broth in one hand, while two thick-necked men in dark leather jackets stood near the fireplace.
Ellen was backed against the kitchen counter, clutching a heavy cast-iron skillet against her chest, her eyes wide with terror.
"Get the hell out of my house," I snarled, raising the steel pry bar until its sharpened tip pointed directly at Vance’s throat.
Vance didn't flinch.
He took a slow, delicate sip of the broth, smiled faintly, and set the porcelain mug down on our hand-carved coffee table.
"A charming home, Mr. Whitaker," Vance said softly.
"So full of character. It would be a terrible shame if an accidental fire were to break out while everyone was asleep."
"You touch my family and I’ll bury you beneath the concrete on Main Street," I said, stepping between him and Ellen.
Daniel moved instantly, positioning his broad frame directly in front of his mother, his injured hands raised into tight, defensive fists.
"Look at this," Vance sneered, his eyes resting on Daniel with cruel amusement.
"The prodigal son playing the hero with broken fingers."
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"You owe me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Daniel."
"And your seven days are almost up."
