We watched Dylan go to the kitchen and start opening drawers—the junk drawer, the silverware drawer, the cabinet where we kept dish towels. Finally he pulled out a clean dishcloth, unwrapped something from his bag, and rolled it carefully inside before placing it at the back of the utensil drawer.
“Zoom in,” I said.
Sam rewound and zoomed. The object in Dylan’s hands became clear.
A revolver.
“He’s planting it,” Sarah said over the headset. “For Victor to use or for someone to ‘find’ later.”
On screen, Dylan pulled out his phone and made a call. He paced as he talked, smiling, exaggeratedly casual. We couldn’t hear the words; he’d learned not to talk about plans in the house.
He hung up and left through the back door.
“Run that back again,” I said. “The part where he puts the gun in.”
Sam replayed it in slow motion. Dylan’s hands placing the weapon carefully, making sure the cloth covered the metal but left enough exposed that someone searching the drawer would find it.
“He wants someone to find that,” Sarah said slowly. “After the shooting. After Victor kills you.”
“Who’s it meant to implicate?” one of the officers asked.
“Sophia,” I said. “He plants her gun—or a gun with her fingerprints at the scene. Victor kills me, runs. Police find the weapon, trace it to Sophia. Dylan gets the insurance. His mother goes to prison for hiring a hitman.”
“Unbelievable,” the officer muttered.
Sarah pulled out her phone.
“I’m calling in more units,” she said. “This is about to get complicated.”
At 9:45 p.m., I strapped on the bulletproof vest Sam handed me. It was heavier than I expected, the canvas stiff against my ribs.
“You don’t have to be in the bedroom,” Sarah said. “We can use a dummy under the covers. Make it look like you’re sleeping.”
“No,” I said. “If something goes wrong, if Victor gets past you somehow, I want to see him coming.”
Sam and Sarah didn’t like it, but they knew better than to argue once my mind was set. A lifetime of boardrooms and negotiations had taught me when to compromise and when to stand firm.
An unmarked police car dropped me off two houses down from my place. I walked through the shadows and slipped in through the garage, where another officer had left the door cracked.
Inside, officers took positions quietly. Two in the master closet. Sarah in the master bathroom. Sam in the guest room across the hall. More outside covering every exit and angle of approach.
I lay down on my own bed fully dressed, under the covers, the vest pressing hard into my chest. The bedroom lights were off. Streetlight glow filtered through the blinds, casting faint lines across the ceiling.
At 10:07 p.m., we heard it through Sarah’s earpiece.
A window sliding open downstairs.
The kitchen window. We’d left it unlocked on purpose.
Careful footsteps creaked on the hardwood floor.
“Victor Ramirez is in the house,” Sam whispered over the radio.
My heart pounded against the vest. In the darkness, I could just make out Sarah’s silhouette in the bathroom doorway, her gun ready.
The footsteps climbed the stairs. Slow. Patient. Professional.
My bedroom door stood cracked open. Through the gap, I saw a shadow move—broad shoulders, thick neck, a man moving with the confidence of someone who’d broken into houses before.
Victor stepped into the room. I could smell cigarettes and cheap cologne.
He moved toward the bed, arm extended. He was holding something, but in the darkness I couldn’t see what.
“Police!” Sarah shouted. “Freeze! Drop your weapon!”
The bedroom lights blazed on. Sarah burst from the bathroom. Two officers exploded from the closet.
Victor spun toward them, and I saw what he held.
A knife. Long, serrated.
“Drop it now!” Sarah shouted.
Victor’s hand twitched.
Sarah fired once.
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