Chapter Sixty-Four: The Trap Has Been Set

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My toes curl against the couch and as I watch Brock scroll through his phone, oblivious to the storm brewing within me. 9:00, then 9:10, the minutes bleed into agonizingly long ticks as my heart hammers against my ribs like a desperate bird trapped in a cage.

Then, when I thought they wouldn't show at all, a sharp rap against the door shatters the tension. It's nearly 10:00. Brock's head snaps up, his eyes flashing to me, a silent question. I'm not the only one on edge. Herc, our normally placid mutt, whines from the foot of the couch, hackles raised like a frightened porcupine.

"They're really late," Brock mutters, checking his watch. He rises, a hand hovering near my shoulder, offering unspoken reassurance. My fingers itch to grasp it, anchor myself to his calm, but my limbs feel frozen.

As I unlock the door, a grim picture unfolds. Not Gray and Lopez. Holder, his familiar face twisted into a mask of cold calculation, a gun glinting in his hand. My breath catches in my throat, the world narrowing to the glint of metal and the dark abyss of his eyes. He's in all black.

"Officer," my voice sounds foreign, brittle. But Brock is beside me, a buffer against the icy dread. "So, you know." It was a statement.

A humorless smile plays on Holder's lips. "Oh, yes, I know, Trice. But not in the way you intended." His gaze flicks to Brock, then back to me, lingering on the fear I can't hide. "Couldn't keep your nose out of my business, could you?"

Brock puts a hand on my arm, a steady rock in the storm. "Not sure what you're talking about, Officer." His voice is smooth, a lawyer's practiced calm masking the storm brewing beneath.

Holder scoffs. "Don't play dumb with me. I'm a cop, remember? Look, whatever you think is going on, it's not. You don't know the real story."

"Okay, then tell us," Brock counters, voice unwavering. "But standing there with a gun pointed at us in the open doorway isn't exactly a smart move. Chief and Lopez are on their way."

A slow, chilling grin spreads across Holder's face. "No, they're not." He waves the gun, casting an ominous shadow across the room. "They had, shall we say, a little blowout. They will be a while. And no, I didn't kill them. Also, before I was a cop, I sold cameras. Yep, even the tiny ones you found in your home. And the ones you, well, I, didn't. The ones I hid without any of you knowing."

Herc growls, low and menacing, echoing the fear clawing at my insides. I kneel, burying my face in his fur, seeking solace in his warm, solid presence.

"Get your mutt under control," Holder snarls, but his voice lacks conviction. Brock's hand tightens on my arm, a silent message: stay quiet.

The next few minutes are a blur of adrenaline and whispered threats. Holder, a predator circling his prey, his words dripping with venomous intent. His plan, diabolical in its simplicity, lays bare: a diversion, a false trail, and us, trapped like flies in a spider's web.

And then, a detail, innocuous, almost inconsequential. The scent of Brock's cologne, faint but familiar, wafting from Holder's hair. My head snaps up, a new wave of terror drowning the old. The fourth camera, the one Brock hadn't found, the one tucked away in the sanctuary of our bathroom.

My eyes meet Brock's, a silent exchange, a desperate plan forming in the shared flicker of understanding.

As Holder rambles on, the gun swaying in his hand, a fragile dance of life and death, I know this isn't the end. It's just the beginning of a game, a deadly game where the stakes are our lives, and the prize, our freedom.

The game has changed, and we're ready to play.

My blood runs cold as Holder’s smug laughter washes over me. He knows everything. Our trap, Gray’s involvement, even our hushed conversation in the living room – confirmed by the faint trace of Brock’s cologne clinging to him. Panic prickles at my scalp, but I force it down. We have to think, to keep him talking.

“Yeah, Gray lured me to the basement to catch my reaction, and so I played right into his hands.” I had to keep him talking.

“How did you meet Troy?”

He snickers. “In Vegas. We both had an, shall I say, obsession with gambling. It turned into something bigger and better, but if I tell you everything, well then, I’d have to kill you, so that’s all you need to know. Now,” he smacks the couch and I jump. “We need to head on over to your neighbors and grab my future. Once I’m long gone with the goods, you can go running to Gray, unless he meets us here first, in which case, if he tries and stops me, I’ll shoot you both. You might want to ring him and prevent that.”

I fumble around my pocket to pull out my phone. My finger is shaking as I punch in Gray’s number.

“Hey, Trice. Sorry, we had some tire troubles.”

“Oh, okay. Do what you need to. It may be hours before he shows up anyway. Plus, I have a migraine, so maybe hold off coming for a while.” I hold Holder’s gaze and sneer at him.

I wait and he says, “Are you OK?” It’s like a broken record of the many times he’s asked me that over the last year, but this time, I must lie to him.

“Yes.” And then I think of a code phrase that we came up with months ago for when I was in danger. “Don’t worry.”

“Got it.” He hung up.

“That’s good,” Holder says. “I’m impressed.”

“Listen, can we just get on with this?” Brock says.

“Of course. Don’t want you two to stay up past your bedtime.” I would love to strangle him, but I keep my composure. He gets up. “Let’s go. Oh, and hands up and all that.” I raise my hands and Brock follows suit. Herc has been staring down Holder this whole time and he gets up and tries to step between Holder and me. “Put the dog somewhere. I would hate for an accident to occur.”

“Come on Herc.” He follows me to his crate, and I have to cajole him in, nearly pushing him inside. I close it and whisper, “We’ll be back.” I hug him and hope I’m right.

“All right then, lead the way.”

Brock and I get up first, then Holder’s behind us. I feel a jab in my back and know it’s the gun. Brock opens the door and we both walk out. The air is a little cool, the wind picking up. I shiver, as I look at Brock. He’s staring straight ahead, no expression.

I adjust my eyes to the darkness but wish we had some light in which to see. The streetlight’s a few houses down and although I see light coming from Leah’s home across the street, is faint like the little lamp she keeps on for when she’s gone. No other light is visible in other homes. But then, it was probably 10:00 by now and people are in bed, either unwinding or going to sleep.

We get to the neighbors, and since we have to get in through the window, I dread having to climb the fence. The last time, I sprained my ankle.

“Just answer one thing,” I say, taking a chance. “Why did Troy hide the drugs and money in our shed as well as his basement?”

“Why do you think? He wanted a little extra for himself, the little prick. We were supposed to split it fifty-fifty until he started getting greedy. He kept changing it. Before he died, he was only willing to give 20%, said it was because he was taking all the risk. I didn’t know about your shed until we all showed up that morning. I hired someone to grab it for me, but then he ended up dead and here we are. Karma came back and bit Troy in the ass, though, so now I get it all,” he said, emphasizing all.

“Pretty smart,” Brock chimes in.

“Enough talk. Okay, time to climb. Hubby goes first, but don’t try anything. Me and Trice here don’t want to part ways in an unfortunate incident.” He called me Trice??

“I got it,” Brock says, his voice tight.

I squint to see Brock scale the vinyl fence, getting a foothold and hoisting himself over it. “Okay, your turn,” he turns to me. I grab hold on one of the posts for support and do the same as Brock, slipping a bit before getting good traction and getting to the top. I then slide down the other side.

“You alright?” Brock says, looking down at my leg.

“Yeah.” I say and then whisper, “Do you think he’ll kill us?”

“Not if we do everything right. Follow my lead.”

A minute later, Holder is over the fence, and we walk to the window, the perfect height and width to climb through. Brock slides it open and again follows the same pattern as we did the fence. We get inside and it’s darker than outside.

“Vegas, huh?” I throw out, feigning curiosity. His eyes glint, relishing the spotlight. He spins a yarn of shared gambling thrills, of an alliance with Troy that morphed into something more sinister. Each word drips with menace, a twisted confession that hangs heavy in the air.

Suddenly, the room feels like a pressure cooker. His hand smacks the couch, jolting me from my mental paralysis. “Time to collect my prize,” he declares, voice like ice cracking. The threat of our neighbors’ home, of Troy’s hidden stash, looms large. My mind scrambles for escape, for some crack in his facade. He shoves us towards the stairs, the cold kiss of metal biting into my back.

We have to move, to act before Holder’s impatience boils over. But where do we go? How do we outwit a viper in his own den? The weight of responsibility, of Brock’s life hanging in the balance, threatens to crush me.

But I won’t. We won’t. In the suffocating darkness, a spark of defiance ignites. We have each other, and that, somehow, feels like a weapon, a shard of hope against the encroaching darkness. We press on, deeper into the unknown, ready to face whatever awaits, together.

The harsh glare of the overhead light slices through the darkness, momentarily blinding as we blink away the shadows. Holder grins, the glint of metal at my back a chilling reminder of our precarious situation. "Okay, let's get this over with," he growls, shoving the gun barrel harder into my ribs. "Grab the drum, Brock."

My husband hesitates, a silent defiance flashing in his eyes before it's swallowed by resignation. He pulls the heavy steel drum out from under the stairs, the metal groaning its protest. Each thud feels like a drumbeat against my own racing heart.

Holder saunters over, the gun wobbling slightly in his hand. "Let's make sure it's all still there," he sneers. "Open it."

Brock's hands tremble as he pries the lid loose. All the money and drugs are still there. Brick-like bags of drugs nestle amidst the bills, a silent testament to Troy's ill-gotten gains.

Holder's lips curl into a satisfied smirk. "Good. Let's get it through the window. Once it's in my truck, I disappear, and you two can pretend this never happened." As if erasing the past year of nightmares, of fear and paranoia, were as simple as shutting a door.

Brock shoves the drum towards the window, muscles straining against the weight. It's too much, the air filling with his ragged breaths. My blood pressure skyrockets, mirroring his struggle. "Seems you need some weight training," Holder says. I snarl, a bitterness biting through the tension.

His eyes flash towards me, the familiar annoyance at my teasing replaced by a cold, calculating anger. "Now, Trice," he barks, voice dripping with venom, "you go first."

My name, twisted on his tongue, feels like a fresh wound. "You don't have the right to call me that," I whisper, defiance blooming in my chest like a poisonous flower.

"I'll call you whatever the hell I want," he snarls, the gun barrel nudging me towards the window. Gritting my teeth, I comply, clambering out into the cool night air. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind, amplifies the fear buzzing beneath my skin.

I wait, huddled in the shadows, as the drum groans under their combined weight. My breath hangs heavy in the air, punctuated by the tell-tale click of a car door unlocking. Just as my mind teeters on the edge of panic, two figures emerge from the darkness.

Gray's silhouette, tall and unwavering, and Officer Lopez, her badge glinting faintly in the moonlight. My chest tightens, hope and fear warring within me. Will the scales of justice finally tip in our favor, or will darkness consume us whole?

In the breathless silence, the answer hangs suspended, as fragile as a spiderweb, awaiting the slightest tremor to reveal its true strength.

The next few minutes will determine our fate.