Chapter 2 - The Silent House and the Forty-Eight Calls
The interior of Harrison’s sedan was warm, quiet, and smelled faintly of expensive leather and rain.
Outside, the highway blurred into a smear of grey as the car traveled north towards my quiet home.
Harrison sat next to me, his hands resting calmly on his knees, giving me the space I so desperately needed to breathe.
My phone didn't stop vibrating; it danced across my lap like a frantic animal, the screen illuminating the dark interior over and over again.
Phillip. Phillip. Phillip.
Nine missed calls became fifteen, then twenty-two, then thirty-one by the time the sedan pulled into my driveway.
"You don't have to answer him, Pamela," Harrison said gently, his steady voice providing an anchor to my racing thoughts.
"I know," I whispered, staring at the darkened windows of the house I had spent thirty-five years maintaining.
Harrison stepped out of the vehicle, carried my small suitcase to the front porch, and waited as I unlocked the door.
The house was completely cold.
The silence inside was different than usual; it didn't feel peaceful—it felt heavy, like the air inside an abandoned tomb.
I walked into the kitchen, placing my phone on the counter just as it began to ring for the forty-eighth time.
I finally slid my thumb across the glass to answer, my voice entirely flat. "Phillip?"
"Mom! Thank God!" Phillip’s voice didn't carry concern or love; it exploded with a frantic, sharp panic that made my skin go cold. "Where are you? Are you at the house? Did you look in the study?"
"I just walked through the front door, Phillip," I said quietly, leaning against the counter as my chest gave a small, warning throb.
"Don't touch anything!" he screamed through the speaker, the sound of wind rushing past him indicating he was driving fast. "Diana and I are coming over right now. Just stay in the living room!"
He hung up before I could ask a single question, leaving me staring at the dead screen in the quiet kitchen.
Harrison walked in from the hallway, his brow furrowed as his medical eyes tracked the pale tint of my complexion.
May you like
"Pamela," he said softly, pointing toward the end of the corridor where the door to my late husband's private study stood half-open.
"Did you leave the lights on before you flew to Cleveland?"
