Page 80 of Misery
We practiced on every door in the neighborhood until we could do it in under thirty seconds.
Inside is quiet except for the smoke alarm screaming from the garage.
The sound covers my footsteps as I move through the kitchen.
Dishes in the sink.
Coffee still warm in the pot.
They were having a normal morning until he arrived.
I clear corners carefully, weapon drawn.
Kitchen empty.
Living room clear—photos on the mantel of happier times.
Elfe and Helle as children.
Ivar in his younger days.
A family that's breaking apart. Down the hall?—
Blood.
Not much.
Just drops leading toward the master bedroom.
Fresh. Still wet.
I follow, keeping my steps silent, gun raised.
The bedroom door is cracked.
I can hear breathing—ragged, pained.
Someone crying.
I push it open with my foot.
Starla's on the floor, blood streaming from a gash on her scalp where something heavy hit her.
The blood's matted in her hair, pooling beneath her.
She's conscious but dazed, trying to sit up and failing.
A lamp lies broken beside her, ceramic base covered in blood.
The room's been ransacked.
Signs of a struggle—furniture overturned, picture frames shattered.
But no Thiago. No Ivar.
"Ivar." Starla's voice is weak but frantic. "They took him—he took him?—"
"Who?" I kneel beside her, checking her wounds while keeping my weapon ready. "Who took him?"
