Chapter 7- One Big Sad Family.
ETHAN >< ><
"Are you sure you heard a scream, boss?" Theresa's voice crackled through the phone, all high-pitched and doubtful, like I'd just claimed to spot Bigfoot in my backyard.
I didn't even bother answering her.
My heart was already thumping too hard. Was it real? Or just my brain playing tricks after staring at this damn laptop screen for too long?
I pushed back from the desk, chair scraping loud against the hardwood, and crept toward the door.
I pressed my ear against the wood, holding my breath.
The line went fuzzy for a second.
Theresa jumped right back in.
"See? Probably just the phone acting up. These late-night calls, they get all glitchy—"
"Theresa," I cut her off, my voice low and edged, like I was talking to a kid who wouldn't shut up during hide-and-seek. "You wanna hear a fascinating little secret? Something that'll really get your blood pumping, put you right on your toes?"
Her end exploded with excitement.
"Yes! Oh my God, yes, boss! Spill it—I live for your stories. They always blow my mind, every single time."
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt, leaning my forehead against the cool door.
If only you knew, I thought.
This wasn't gonna be one of my dumb office anecdotes.
"Alright, here's the secret, Theresa. There's this thing… it's sweet, you know? Breathtaking, even. It's called silence. Just keeping your mouth shut. Not piping up unless someone asks you to. There's something downright magical about it. Life-changing."
Dead air.
I could practically hear her brain grinding to a halt on the other end.
"See, the whole reason you called me tonight—on my birthday was that client deal. The revisions. The file. That's it.
So who the hell gave you the green light to veer off into detective mode? Questioning if I heard a scream or if it's 'static'?
You think we're holed up in some cop drama, barking into walkie-talkies that spit sparks? Or what, we still stuck in the dial-up era, waiting for the modem to scream like a banshee every time someone logs on?"
I paused, letting it sink in, my free hand clenched into a fist against the door.
"If I say I heard something, I heard it. Don't argue with me about static or signals or whatever bullshit excuse your imagination's cooking up. Got it?"
"I—I'm so sorry, sir," she stammered, words tumbling out.
"I didn't mean to overstep. It's just… it's late, you know? Houses creak, phones glitch. I figured maybe you misheard, that's all. I'm really, truly sorry. Won't happen again. Promise."
I bit back a groan.
God, that's the thing with Theresa.
Girl apologizes like it's her job—once isn't enough; she'll loop it a dozen times until you wanna beg her to stop.
"Theresa. Enough. I heard the first one. Let's leave it there."
She was mid-"I'm so—" when it ripped through the house again.
Another scream.
Louder this time, raw and jagged, like someone dragging nails down my spine.
No mistaking it now.
IMy blood went cold, then hot, pulse hammering in my ears.
What the hell?
My mind raced, flashing to the dumbest possibilities first, because facing the real ones?
"Are Mom and Dad watching some horror flick down there? At this hour?" I muttered to myself, half-laughing it off even as my stomach knotted.
We didn't even own horror movies—Mom's idea of scary was that one rom-com where the guy ghosts the girl.
Dad? He'd fall asleep to paint drying.
No way they'd fire up The Conjuring on a random Tuesday.
"Boss? You there? I was saying—"
"Shut up!" I hissed into the phone, yanking the door open just a crack.
The hallway stretched out dark and quiet.
No TV glow flickering from downstairs.
I eased the door wider, then shut it soft behind me, barefoot on the creaky floorboards.
Heart still racing, but now there was this stupid spark of mischief flickering under the fear.
If they're glued to some slasher marathon, I thought, a grin tugging at my lips despite everything, what's better than jumping out and scaring the crap out of 'em?
Teach 'em not to crank that volume at midnight.
Yeah, that'd be gold.
Payback for all the times they'd busted me sneaking in late.
"Alright, dearest secretary," I whispered into the phone, already pocketing it as I tiptoed down the hall.
"That's a wrap for tonight. And hey—pro tip: don't call me after dark. Ever. Goodnight."
I thumbed the end call before she could squeak out another sorry, shoving the thing deep in my jeans.
Silence again.
Step by step, I crept down, hugging the wall tightly.
The Living room light spilled faint under the banister.
One more step, and—
I froze.
My foot hovered mid-air, the world tilting hard, like the floor had dropped out from under me.
The grin died first, then everything else—breath, beat, brain.
I couldn't move.
Couldn't blink.
Just stared, mouth hanging slack, a cold sweat prickling my skin as the scene burned into my eyes.
Masked men.
Three—no, four—of them in our living room.
Guns.
Real ones, glinting under the lamp.
And Mom…
God, Mom was on her knees, right there by the coffee table.
A pistol jammed against her temple, the barrel digging into her skin, turning it white.
"Ethan, run!"
Her voice cracked, hoarse and wet with tears, eyes wild when they locked on mine.
"Ethan, please—run! Get out, baby, just go!"
I couldn't.
My legs were heavy and rooted to the spot.
"M-Mom?"
It came out a whisper, broken and small.
A tear slid down my cheek, blurring her face.
"Wh-what… please…"
She lunged, or tried to—grabbing at the leg of the guy holding the gun, her fingers clawing like she could drag him down with sheer will.
"Please," she sobbed, voice muffled against the carpet, snot and tears streaking her face.
"I don't know who sent you. Don't even know what you want from us. But please—not my kid. Don't hurt my boy.
Take the money, the car, whatever—just leave him be. He's got nothing to do with this."
The mask closest to her—the one with the gun—didn't even flinch.
Just reared back and kicked.
Hard.
Boot slamming into her side like she was trash on the curb.
She crumpled with a wet crack, blood spraying from her nose and mouth, bright red against the rug.
"Bitch, who told you you could touch me?" the guy snarled,.
Dad—oh God, Dad was there too, wrestled down by two others, his tie askew, shirt ripped at the collar.
He roared, low and feral, surging against their grip.
"Get your filthy hands off her! Let her go!"
He twisted free for a split second, lunging toward Mom, arms outstretched—
The shot cracked the air.
A bloom of red exploded across his chest, soaking through his shirt, and he staggered, eyes going wide, mouth working soundless.
"Dad!"
It tore out of me, raw and ragged, louder than I'd ever screamed in my life.
Tears flooded now.
"Dad—Dad, no, Daddy! Please—nooo! Dad, please—don't—"
I was babbling, choking on it, the world narrowing to that hole in his shirt.
He turned his head slowly.
"Eth… an…"
He whispered before his knees buckled.
He hit the floor hard and went still.
The gasp that followed wasn't his—it was mine, ripping through me.
I don't know when I moved.
One second I was frozen, the next I was charging, blind and desperate, the two goons on me grabbing my arms, yanking me back like I weighed nothing.
"No—help him! Somebody—please! He's dying!
We didn't do shit to you—take it all!
The company, the house, my car—everything!
Just let me get him to a hospital.
Please, God, please—he's my dad!"
Their grips were iron, bruising my biceps, pinning me down as I thrashed, kicking wild, nails scraping at gloves that didn't give.
Dad's chest hitched—once, shallow—blood bubbling at his lips, eyes fluttering like he was fighting to stay.
My heart shattered over and over.
"Let me go! He is going to die—please, you bastards, let me go!"
Sobs choked me, face wet, body heaving against them, but they held fast, laughing low under those masks.
"Leave him be," one growled, the one who'd shot Dad, his voice ice-cold as he pressed the gun harder against Mom's head.
She whimpered, curling tighter, blood dripping from her chin.
"I dare you to take one more step toward that bastard on the floor.
Your mommy joins him.
Right here.
Right now."