Chapter 10: The Glass Shatters in the Dark
The single desk lamp cast a harsh, yellow circle over the papers spread across the kitchen table. My eyes burned from hours of cross-referencing the ledger entries with the court dockets Arthur had helped me copy. Outside, the streetlights flickered against the damp, empty asphalt of the parking lot, throwing long, distorted shadows across the drawn window blinds. I rubbed my palms over my face, feeling the grit of exhaustion beneath my fingers. Every name I looked at, every signature on those impound logs, pointed to a deliberate, methodical web of falsified evidence designed to keep Mom behind that thick glass partition.
A sharp crack cut through the quiet hum of the apartment refrigerator.
I froze, my hand dropping from my face. I held my breath, listening.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps were climbing the exterior metal staircase that led up to the second-floor landing. They didn't sound like a neighbor returning late from a shift. They moved with a synchronized, heavy rhythm—two pairs of boots, stepping hard on the rusted grates.
Panic surged, cold and sharp, pushing aside the fatigue. I shoved the papers into my backpack, zipping it shut with a harsh rasp that sounded deafening in the silence.
The footsteps stopped right outside my front door.
For a terrifying second, there was absolute stillness. Then came the unmistakable metallic click of a heavy pry bar sliding into the doorframe. The wood groaned, splintering loudly as the deadbolt sheared away from the wall with a hollow pop.
I didn't hesitate. I bolted down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom, sliding on the linoleum floor before catching myself on the edge of the sink. I pushed the frosted glass window upward. It stuck in its track with a rusted screech. I shoved it harder, ignoring the sharp scrape of metal against my skin, until it jammed open just wide enough to squeeze through.
Behind me, the front door crashed inward, hitting the drywall with a resounding thud.
"Check the back," a gruff voice commanded from the living room.
I scrambled over the porcelain rim of the tub, dropping headfirst through the bathroom window into the alleyway below. I hit the packed dirt and gravel hard, absorbing the impact with my knees and rolling into the shadows between two overflowing metal dumpsters.
Heavy footsteps pounded across the apartment floor, and a second later, a figure leaned out of the bathroom window I had just escaped through, casting a long beam of a heavy-duty flashlight down into the dark alley. The white glare swept back and forth across the wet pavement, missing me by inches as I pressed my back flat against the cold brick wall, clutching my backpack tight to my chest.
"He's gone," the voice shouted back inside. "Left a mess on the table."
"Grab whatever's left. Make it look like a common break-in."
I didn't wait to hear more. Crouched low, I sprinted down the length of the narrow alleyway, my sneakers splashing through puddles of stagnant rainwater. I cut through the neighboring parking lot, darting behind a row of parked delivery vans until I reached the cross street.
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My chest heaved for air as I kept moving, walking fast into the shadows of the warehouse district. There was only one place left where I wouldn't be found, where the locks were heavy enough and the person inside had nothing left to lose.
Fifteen minutes later, I stood panting in front of the heavy steel-reinforced door of the print shop on the edge of town, rapping a sharp, coded rhythm against the iron panel until the deadbolt finally turned from the inside.
