Page 51 of Rampage

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "The kitchen door," I whisper. "He never fixed the lock properly after Marlene locked herself out last winter."

We cross the yard, staying low and moving quickly. The kitchen door looms before us, a simple white door with a small window. My hand trembles as I reach for the handle.

"Let me," Reid says gently, moving in front of me.

He tries the handle first—locked, of course. But as I'd remembered, the lock is faulty. Reid applies pressure, jiggling it in a specific pattern, and I hear the telltale click of the mechanism giving way.

The door swings open silently, revealing the darkened kitchen beyond. The familiar smell hits me first—lemon cleaner, coffee, and something else uniquely this house. My lungs constrict, refusing to draw breath. I freeze on the threshold, one foot inside, one still in the safety of the outside world.

Everything rushes back at once—the sound of Frank's heavy footsteps coming down the hall, the way the floorboard in front of the refrigerator always creaked, the constant monitoring of his moods, gauging his level of drunkenness by the cadence of his voice. My heart hammers against my ribs, a trapped bird seeking escape.

"Lily?" Reid turns, concern etching his features when he sees me frozen in place.

I can't speak. Can't move. My vision tunnels, the edges darkening as my breath comes in short, painful gasps. My skin prickles with cold sweat, and I'm suddenly certain Frank is here, waiting in the shadows, ready to punish me for returning.

Reid is at my side instantly, strong hands gripping my upper arms, steadying me. "Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe with me." His voice seems to come from far away, though his face is inches from mine. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it."

I try to focus on his face, on the familiar blue of his eyes, but panic has me in its grip. My knees buckle, and Reid catches me easily, supporting my weight.

"We're leaving," he says firmly, already turning to guide me back outside.

"No," I gasp, forcing the word past the constriction in my throat. "No, I can do this." I clutch at his jacket, anchoring myself. "Just… give me a minute."

Reid searches my face, clearly conflicted. "Lily, your safety, both physical and emotional, is the priority here."

"I need to do this," I insist, my voice stronger as I fight against the tide of fear. "If I run now, I'll never stop running from him."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. He nods once, then pulls me against his chest, enveloping me in warmth and security. I press my face into his shirt, breathing in his scent—leather, soap, something uniquely him—until my breathing steadies and my heartbeat slows.

"Better?" he asks, his lips against my hair.

I nod, drawing strength from his solid presence. "I can do this."

"Stay close to me," he instructs, his voice low and steady. "The office is where?"

"Down the hall, second door on the right," I whisper, pointing toward the darkened corridor.

Reid leads the way, moving silently across the kitchen floor. I follow, careful to step over the creaky floorboard near the refrigerator. The house is eerily quiet, the only sound our controlled breathing and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room.

The hallway stretches before us, family photos lining the walls—Frank and Marlene smiling, their perfect facade intact. None of the foster children appear in these images; we were never part of the family narrative they presented to the world.

Reid pauses at the office door, giving me a questioning look. I nod, and he turns the handle slowly, pushing the door open with practiced care to prevent any noise.

Frank's office appears untouched, the heavy mahogany desk dominating the room, a leather chair pushed neatly beneath it, and bookshelves lining the walls. The space smells of cigar smoke and expensive cologne, Frank's presence lingering even in his absence.

"The bookcase," I whisper, pointing to the tall shelf against the far wall. "Third shelf from the bottom, behind the law books."

Reid crosses to the bookcase, his movements silent and efficient. I follow, my fingers trembling as I reach for the specific volumes that conceal the hiding place.

"These," I say, removing three heavy law books from the shelf. "The panel is behind them."

With the books removed, the false panel is revealed—a section at the back of the bookcase that appears seamless but can be pushed inward if you know where to press. I place my palm against it, applying pressure at the top right corner.

The panel gives way with a soft click, sliding inward to reveal a small cavity. And there it is, the metal lockbox, exactly as I remembered. Smaller than a shoebox, but heavier, its surface cool against my fingers as I carefully extract it from its hiding place.

"This is it," I say, my voice barely audible.

Reid takes the box from my shaking hands, examining it briefly before tucking it into the backpack he's wearing. "Is there anything else? Anything he might have kept elsewhere?"

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