Chapter 15 - The Knock at Midnight
The clock in the hallway chimed midnight, its deep, resonant gongs echoing through the cavernous Victorian house. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I froze beside the mahogany desk. The federal agents stationed outside were supposed to be patrolling the perimeter, yet no shouting or footsteps broke the silence.
I walked slowly down the grand staircase, keeping to the shadows, my hand resting on the small, heavy flashlight I had slipped into my pocket. The moonlight filtered through the cracked wooden boards covering the shattered front doors, casting splintered patterns across the marble foyer.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was coming from the side window overlooking the wraparound porch. I crept toward the window, pressing my back against the wall beneath the transom, and slowly peered around the wooden frame.
Standing on the porch, illuminated by the pale moonlight, was a small figure wearing a yellow raincoat with the hood pulled up over its head. In the freezing autumn mist, the sight sent a sudden chill straight down my spine.
Sofia had worn that exact yellow raincoat on her last rainy day walk from school.
My breath caught in my throat. My mind screamed that it was impossible—that children buried in cemeteries do not walk back to front porches at midnight. Yet the small figure stood there, unmoving, staring directly toward the window where I hid.
“Hello?” I whispered, my voice trembling as I reached out and slowly unlocked the heavy wooden latch of the window.
I pushed the window open a few inches. The damp night air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet grass and faint vanilla—the exact scent of Sofia’s favorite strawberry shampoo.
“Aunt Emma,” a soft, whispered voice called out from the porch. It wasn't an echo; it was clear, childish, and unmistakably real.
I pushed the window open wider and leaned out. Standing on the porch steps wasn't a ghost, but a terrified, shivering eight-year-old girl clutching a worn pink backpack against her chest. She looked up at me with wide, luminous brown eyes.
“Lily?” I gasped, recognizing the little girl instantly. Lily was Sofia’s best friend from school, whose mother worked night shifts as a nurse at the county hospital.
“Aunt Emma, my mom isn't home yet, and… and some bad men in a black car were asking questions about you at our house,” Lily whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I remembered Sofia said if I was ever scared, I should come here.”
Relief and horror washed over me simultaneously. I pushed the window all the way open, reached down, and lifted the little girl through the frame into the warm safety of the foyer.
“You’re safe now, sweetie,” I said, wrapping my arms tightly around her trembling shoulders. “You’re safe with me.”
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But as I pulled her inside and locked the window behind us, the red tail lights of a speeding vehicle flashed across the street, disappearing into the dark suburban night.
Viktor Vance’s men hadn't given up. They were still watching the neighborhood—and they knew Lily had just run straight into my house.
