Getting everything ready for this operation was such a flurry of activity and tension that the sudden calm of it going into action feels strange.
Armed with my gun, the unlock code for the front door, and every bit of adrenaline and caution I can muster, I stop at the steps to the old house before going in. It’s just as I remember it. Like the years have slipped away, and the moment I cross the door, I will slip seventeen years into the past.
I let myself in. As soon as I step beyond the front door into the foyer, memories wash over me. The sound of my mother’s laughter floods my ears. I can almost catch the smell of her skin.
I walk over to the front door and press my back to it, sliding down to sit on the floor. From that position, I can see sunlight splashing through the glass at the top of the door, glowing in a late-afternoon rainbow on the stairs. I don’t look up. I don’t want to see the landing and risk catching a glimpse of myself sitting there, perpetually staring down and waiting to see my mother’s face.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in the house, I forgot how well isolated it really is. Far away from any neighbors or main roads, it is quiet, but slightly unnerving. Everyone is strategically placed around the grounds and back at the hotel where the files taken from my mother’s casket still sit. Now all I have to do is wait.
With nothing better to do, I go into the living room. I’m drawn to the couch. It’s not the same one that was there when I was a little girl, but close enough. I sit where Ron Murdock did the night my mother died. He was there to protect me, to watch over me since he couldn’t watch over her. I’m thankful for the memories I have of him now. I only wish there were more of them. I wish I knew his smile and the sound of his voice. The smiles in the pictures of him I’ve seen aren’t enough. I want to know who he was when he wasn’t on duty.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting watching TV when I hear the wail of a siren in the distance. It’s short and far enough away to barely be audible, but it grabs my attention. I move to turn the channel and suddenly feel eyes on my back.
“Hoping to catch a replay of your statement, Emma?”
The voice isn’t familiar, but I have no doubt who’s standing behind me. I turn to face him without hesitation.
Anson is taller and even more imposing than he looks on the surveillance footage. His black hood is pulled up over his head like it was when he walked down the street away from the bus station, but as he takes a step toward me, he pushes it back, revealing his thick hair tied in a ponytail at the back of his neck.
“It really is too bad, you know,” he says.
“What is?” I ask. My hand is already on my holster. I won’t make the same mistake I did last time.
“You were so close. But you just couldn’t figure it out. Just like I thought.”
“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Testing me.”
He laughs.
“I guess it makes sense you would simplify it so much. The Great Emma Griffin. People treat you like you’re the second coming like you have some sort of inhuman ability. But you’re nothing. I had to prove that. I had to prove all this worship over you is ridiculous,” he says.
“So, that’s it? You just wanted to give me a mystery you didn’t think I could solve? To what? To prove I’m human?”
“To prove you aren’t worth the admiration. You aren’t worth the distraction. It didn’t start this way. At first, I just wanted to know who you are. I heard your name every day. I listened to the stories, the dreams, the fantasies. You became everything, and I needed to understand it. I needed to know what it was about you that made you so exalted, so precious. But then I realized that wasn’t enough.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of black gloves, putting them on slowly before drawing a large knife out of a hilt under his sweatshirt. “I needed to rid the world of you, to bring you down so order could be restored.”
“Order through chaos?” I ask.
“I can’t expect you to understand. You may be his daughter, but you will never be what he once was. What I believe he can be again. He just has to remember. He needs his mind clear so he can see the truth again. And that begins with you being gone.”
Anson rushes me with the knife held up by his shoulder. That one position tells me everything about his motivation. A knife held up above the head is meant to slash. One held at the shoulder gains more force, enough to plunge deep and impale.
I’m able to dart out of his way and run around the opposite end of the couch. I raise my gun and fire two quick shots in succession, but he ducks low, advancing on me as the bullets whiz over
