Chapter 5 - The Return to an Empty House
Saturday, 4:45 PM.
The black luxury SUV pulled into the circular driveway of our four-bedroom colonial in Lake Forest.
The rain had cleared, leaving behind a cold, sharp dusk that turned the suburban lawns into patches of frosted grass.
Ethan stepped out of the vehicle, his skin lightly tanned from the Arizona sun, wearing an expensive cashmere hoodie and sunglasses pushed up onto his dark hair. He pulled his rolling suitcase from the trunk while Victoria lowered her tinted passenger window.
"Tell Maddie we’ll be over for dinner at seven, Ethan," Victoria called out, her voice dripping with royal condescension. "And remind her to use the good bone china. Not those ceramic plates her aunt gave her."
"I will, Mom," Ethan smiled, waving dismissively as the SUV backed out of the drive. "See you at seven."
Ethan rolled his suitcase up the stone walkway, whistling softly under his breath. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his brass house key, and slid it into the lock of the front door.
He turned the key.
It didn't move.
Ethan frowned. He jiggled the handle, pulled the key out, inspected the teeth, and tried again.
The lock remained completely, stubbornly frozen.
"What the hell?" he muttered, rattling the brass handle with mounting irritation. "Maddie! Open the door!"
He knocked heavily three times.
Silence.
Ethan stepped off the porch, walking around the side of the house toward the garage. The three-car garage doors were closed tight. He pressed the exterior keypad code: 0-9-1-2—his anniversary date.
The red light on the keypad blinked three times and emitted a sharp, high-pitched error tone: ACCESS DENIED.
"Maddie, stop acting crazy!" Ethan yelled, marching back to the front porch, pulling his phone from his pocket, furiously hitting speed dial.
Inside the quiet house, through the leaded glass window beside the front door, the muffled chime of my phone could be heard ringing on the kitchen island.
Nobody answered.
Ethan’s face darkened with sudden, furious indignation. He grabbed the iron handle of the front door with both hands, bracing his foot against the doorframe, preparing to throw his shoulder into the wood—
A heavy, authoritative voice cut through the evening air from the driveway behind him:
"Step away from the threshold, Mr. Vance."
Ethan froze. He turned around, his jaw clenched, ready to curse out a nosy neighbor.
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Standing on the walkway, flanked by two armed Cook County Sheriff’s deputies in uniform, was Deputy Sheriff Marcus Vance.
And standing right beside the patrol cruiser, wearing her camel wool coat and carrying a thick leather folio, was Rebecca Lawson.
