The clock on the nightstand read 4:32 AM.
Daniel stood in the ensuite bathroom, the only light coming from the glowing blue ring of his electric toothbrush. He wasn't brushing his teeth. He was using the bristles to scrub a stubborn fleck of dried blood from the grooves of his knuckles.
His hands were steady, but his mind was a jagged mess. The eyes in the warehouse. The way she moved. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold mirror.
It wasn't her, he lied to himself. Elena is in the other room. She's safe. She's soft. She cries during detergent commercials.
He rinsed his hands. The water swirled pink, then clear. He dried them on a white towel, forcing his "Doting Husband" mask back into place.
He stepped into the bedroom. He wanted to crawl in next to her. He wanted to let the scent of her vanilla shampoo drown out the smell of copper and harbor rain.
He never got the chance.
A faint skritch sounded from the floorboards below.
To a normal ear, it was nothing. A house settling. To the Ghost, it was a scream. It was the distinct, rhythmic shift of a tactical boot on hardwood.
Perimeter breached.
Daniel moved. He was at the bedside in two strides, his hand covering Elena's mouth as she "woke" with a startled gasp.
"Shh, El. It's me," he whispered. His voice trembled—a perfect performance of suburban terror masking a lethal focus. "Someone is in the house. I need you to get in the closet. Now."
Elena's eyes were wide. "Daniel? What—"
"Hide. Lock the door. Don't come out until I say my name three times."
He didn't wait. He ushered her into the walk-in closet and shut the door. The moment the latch clicked, the husband died.
He ripped the cord of the heavy glass lamp from the wall. He didn't call the police. He drifted into the hallway like a shadow.
Inside the closet, Elena didn't cower. She stood in the dark, listening to the soft thuds of violence from the hallway.
"Amateurs," she whispered. Her voice wasn't scared; it was bored.
She reached behind the winter coats and slid the hidden latch. The panel clicked open, revealing the laundry chute. She dropped into it, landing silently on a pile of towels in the mudroom.
She stepped into the kitchen. The moonlight streamed across the granite countertops.
A third intruder was standing by the center island. He was relaxed. Too relaxed. He was looking at a framed photo of Daniel and Elena at the beach, tapping his suppressed pistol against his thigh.
"The Queen is hiding in a kitchen? How pathetic," he muttered into his comms.
Elena stepped out of the shadows. She held her 12-inch cast-iron skillet loosely at her side.
"You're dripping blood on my rug," she said.
The man spun, raising his weapon. He was fast. Elena was efficient.
She stepped inside his guard, using the skillet to bat the gun barrel aside. Clang. Then she reversed her grip and drove the heavy iron edge into his throat.
CRACK.
It was a wet, sickening sound. The man crumpled, clutching his neck, gagging on his own crushed windpipe. Elena watched him fall. She didn't blink. She brought the pan down one more time. Hard. The gagging stopped.
She looked at the body sprawled on her beige runner. A dark stain was already spreading. "Men died easier than furniture," she thought coldly. "That was the real tragedy. Getting blood out of wool is a nightmare."
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Fast. Daniel.
The coldness vanished. Panic—real, calculated panic—set in.
She grabbed the dead man's collar. She dragged him toward the pantry, his boots squeaking against the tile. Squeak. Squeak. Too loud.
The doorknob to the kitchen turned.
Elena shoved the body inside the pantry and kicked the door shut. It didn't latch. The dead man's foot was jamming it from the inside. She cursed silently. She kicked the door again. Click.
She spun around. She messed up her hair. She dropped the skillet and slumped against the stove, clutching her chest.
The kitchen door burst open.
Daniel rushed in. He was a wreck. His t-shirt was torn. His knuckles were raw. His eyes were wild, scanning the room for threats.
He saw Elena "trembling" by the stove.
"Elena!"
He crossed the room in a blur, pulling her into a crushing embrace. He shielded her body with his own, turning his back to the windows.
"I've got you," he panted, his voice thick with adrenaline. "It's okay. I chased them off. I fought them off."
Elena buried her face in his neck. She smelled it. Under the sweat and the fear, she smelled gunpowder. Not from a gun being fired, but the residue of handling a weapon. And she felt the sticky warmth on his hands.
He didn't chase them off, she realized. He took them apart.
"I was so scared, Daniel," she whispered, her voice a fragile, perfect lie.
"I know, honey. I know," Daniel said, kissing her hair. His eyes darted over her shoulder.
His gaze stopped. On the floor, near the pantry. A single, distinct smear of blood. Too much for a nosebleed. Too dark for a cut finger.
Daniel's grip on her tightened. Just a fraction. That's not my blood, he thought. And the intruders never made it past the hall.
"I promise," Daniel said, his eyes fixed on that blood stain, his voice dropping an octave darker. "Nobody is ever getting in here again."
They held each other in the dark kitchen. Two liars. Two killers. Both looking at the evidence of their crimes, and both praying the other wouldn't notice.
End of Chapter 9
Author Note: Elena is worried about the rug. Daniel is worried about the blood stain. They are both worried about the truth. Who slips up first? Drop a Power Stone if you think Daniel suspects her! 🩸👑