Click.
The electronic lock on the front door beeped. He was inside the main house now. I could hear his heavy, rhythmic footsteps walking across the tiled entryway.
“Ana?” his voice called out from the bottom of the stairs. It didn’t sound like my husband anymore. It sounded like a hunter calling out to its prey. “Ana, where are you?”
The Only Way Out
The bedroom only had one door, and it led straight to the hallway and the staircase where Miguel was currently walking up. If I ran out now, I would run directly into him.
My eyes darted around the room, frantic, searching for any means of escape. The master bathroom? No, that was a dead end; there were no windows big enough to climb through. The walk-in closet? I’d be a sitting duck, trapped among the hanging clothes.
The only option was the master bedroom window—the one that opened out onto the flat, tiled roof of the first-floor patio. From there, I could drop down into the backyard, run to the side gate, and escape into the neighborhood.
I rushed to the window, unlocking it with a loud click.
“Ana? What was that noise?” Miguel’s voice was closer now. He was at the top of the stairs. I could hear his leather shoes stepping onto the hallway carpet. He was seconds away from the bedroom door.
I threw the window sash upward. The hot Phoenix air rushed into the room, mixing with the foul stench of the mattress. I threw one leg over the sill, gripping the stucco wall of the house for balance.
Behind me, the bedroom doorknob began to turn.
Click. Creak.
The door swung wide open.
I froze, half-in and half-out of the window, and turned my head back toward the room.
Miguel stood in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his usual business suit. He was wearing a dark, waterproof windbreaker, and his hands were encased in heavy leather gloves. But it wasn’t his clothes that made my heart completely stop.
It was what he was holding in his right hand.
It was a heavy, industrial-grade roll of plastic wrap and a thick, black roll of duct tape. And in his left hand, tucked discreetly against his thigh, was a silenced semi-automatic pistol.
He looked at the slashed mattress. He looked at the exposed cash. Then, his cold, dead eyes slowly shifted across the room until they locked directly onto mine.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face.
“You always did worry too much about the smell, Ana,” he whispered, raising the gun.
