Chapter 7 - The Race Home
I drove back through the snowstorm at breakneck speed, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. Daniel was already at the house, having been released from the precinct after giving his formal statement. I called him on Bluetooth as my tires skidded slightly on the icy pavement.
“Daniel! Get out of the house!” I yelled over the roar of the engine.
“Clara? What are you talking about?” his voice came through the speakers, laced with confusion. “I’m just checking the mail. What happened at the station?”
“Richard just dropped a hint. He said there’s something in the garage—in the box we packed away after Thanksgiving. He didn't just target Emma with the cream, Daniel. There’s something else!”
A heavy silence hung on the line for three seconds.
Then, Daniel spoke, his voice suddenly hollow. “Clara... the old wooden crate of vintage glass ornaments. My grandmother’s heirlooms. We put them on the top shelf of the garage shelves.”
“Don't touch them!” I screamed. “Wait for the police!”
“I... I hear a ticking sound,” Daniel whispered.
My heart stopped.
“Daniel, get out of the garage right now! Drop the phone and run!”
“Clara, it’s not a clock—it’s...”
Click.
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The line went dead.
“Daniel!” I screamed into the empty air, slamming my foot down harder on the gas pedal. The snow was coming down in blinding sheets now, hiding the road ahead, but I didn't care. My husband was in that house, and time had just run out.
