Chapter 3 - The Red Sirens at the Back Door
WHEEP.
A short burst of an emergency siren echoed from the driveway, followed by the crunch of heavy tires over the front gravel.
Daniel froze.
The lighter slipped from his gloved fingers, clattering against the island counter, extinguishing the tiny flame.
"What the hell...?" Daniel whispered, his voice cracking with sudden, disbelieving panic.
He spun toward the hallway windows. Two marked cruisers from the County Sheriff’s Department screeched to a halt outside our picket fence, their high-intensity searchlights sweeping across the front facade, turning midnight into midday.
"Sheriff's Office! Open the door!" a deep voice boomed through a cruiser's loudspeaker.
Daniel scrambled backward, knocking his hip against the dining table. He frantically twisted the four gas knobs shut, his breathing coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
He turned toward the kitchen back door, pulling a set of keys from his pocket to make a run through the darkened rear gardens.
He wrenched the deadbolt open and threw the door wide.
Standing on the back porch, weapons drawn at low-ready with tactical flashlights blinding his face, were Senior Detective Marcus Stone and two tactical deputies.
"Step back inside and put your hands on your head! Right now!" Detective Stone bellowed.
Daniel raised his trembling, gloved hands, his face turning an ashen shade of grey.
"Officers! Thank God you're here!" Daniel stammered, attempting to force a look of hysterical grief onto his face. "My wife... my son... they collapsed at the dinner table! I was just running to the neighbor for help!"
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I pushed myself up from the tile floor, grabbing Noah’s hand as my boy sat up beside me.
"He's lying, Detective," I said, my voice ringing clear and steady through the kitchen. "He turned on the gas burners to blow up this house."
