Part 17
The police response was immediate, but ultimately frustrating. They took our statements, filed a report for stalking and terroristic threats, and promised to increase patrols around our neighborhood. But as the officer gently pointed out, Madison hadn't physically broken any laws on our property that day; she had stood on a public sidewalk and given a child a piece of candy. The fact that she was a fugitive from Colorado meant they wanted to catch her, but our town was large, and she was hiding in the shadows.
We moved Chloe’s bed into our room that night. We didn't care if it crowded the space; we needed to hear her breathing, needed to know she was safe between us.
Ethan sat on the edge of the bed, a heavy baseball bat resting against his knee. He hadn't slept in over thirty-six hours. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them.
"We can't live like this, Emily," he said softly, his voice heavy with defeat. "We’re prisoners in our own home. Every time a branch hits the window, we jump. This is exactly what she wants. She wants to drain us, to drive us crazy with fear before she actually does anything."
I sat beside him, wrapping my arms around his waist. "I know. She’s a parasite. She feeds on control. When we were kids, she would ruin my toys just to watch me cry. She doesn't just want to hurt us; she wants to watch the slow torture of us waiting for the blow."
"Then we don't wait," Ethan said, turning to look at me, a sharp spark of determination returning to his eyes. "Marcus is tracking her finances. She bought a burner phone three days ago, and he’s trying to ping the location. If the police can't find her, we find her first. We force the issue."
Before I could reply, the lights in our bedroom flickered once, twice, and then plunged into total darkness.
The hum of the refrigerator downstairs died. The digital clock on the nightstand went black. The entire house became instantly, suffocatingly quiet. Outside, the streetlights were still glowing, casting a pale, eerie light through our window.
This wasn't a neighborhood power outage.
"She cut the power lines," Ethan whispered, his voice turning to ice. He stood up, gripping the baseball bat.
Suddenly, the security system’s backup battery kicked in, a loud, high-pitched beeping echoing from the control panel downstairs. A second later, a mechanical voice announced: "Warning. Back door opened. Warning. Back door opened."
My heart stopped. She was in the house.
Chloe stirred in her sleep, murmuring softly but not waking up. I threw myself over her body, covering her with my own, my eyes wide with terror as I stared at the bedroom door.
Ethan moved with silent, lethal grace. He stepped out into the hallway, his flashlight off, relying on the pale moonlight filtering through the windows. I heard his footsteps retreating down the stairs, followed by the agonizingly slow passage of time.
Then, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen downstairs—the sound of shattering porcelain.
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A high-pitched, manic laugh echoed through the house, drifting up the stairs. It was Madison.
"Emmy! Oh, Emmy! Come out, come out, wherever you are!" she taunted, her voice echoing unnaturally in the dark. "I brought another present for you!"
