Chapter 19 - THE HOUSE UNDER SIEGE
The drive back to Fairfax County was a blur of flashing lights and pure, unadulterated terror.
Four state police cruisers led the convoy. Daniel sat in the back of Miller’s car, screaming into his phone.
"Emily! Answer the phone! EMILY!"
The call went straight to voicemail for the seventh time.
Miller leaned forward, barking into his radio: "Unit 4, Unit 6 at the Bennett residence, report in! Over! Why isn't the detail answering?"
Static crackled across the radio frequency. Then a broken, frantic voice came over the speaker: *Dispatch... this is Officer Higgins... we have an officer down on the perimeter... phone lines are cut... power is cut... someone breached the rear conservatory... requesting immediate backup! Shots fired! Shots fired!*
"Step on it!" Daniel screamed, lunging forward against the seat partition. "SHE’S IN THE HOUSE! SHE’S IN THE HOUSE!"
The cruiser crested the hill of their suburban street at 7:52 PM.
The Bennett house was completely dark. The streetlights flickered against the heavy rain. On the front lawn, an empty black sedan sat with its doors wide open, its hazard lights rhythmically pulsing yellow across the soaked grass. Near the flowerbeds, a police officer lay motionless, being tended to by a neighbor who had run out with an umbrella.
Daniel didn't wait for Miller to stop the car. He kicked the passenger door open while the vehicle was still sliding on the wet asphalt, hit the ground running, and bolted across the lawn.
"Daniel! Wait for tactical!" Miller shouted from behind.
Daniel ignored him. His entire universe was inside that dark house.
He vaulted the porch steps and slammed his shoulder into the front door. It was unlatched; it swung open into pitch-black silence.
The house smelled of ozone, rain, and the distinct, metallic scent of discharged gunpowder.
"Emily!" Daniel screamed into the darkness. "LILY!"
Silence.
Daniel moved through the foyer. Broken glass from the side window crunched under his boots. In the living room, the furniture was overturned. A blood trail—fresh, red, and smeary—led down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Daniel’s breath caught in his throat. He followed the trail, his heart slamming against his ribs like a sledgehammer.
He turned the corner into the dining room.
Sitting in the chair at the head of the oak dining table—the scratch from five years ago still visible in the pale moonlight filtering through the bay window—sat an elderly woman.
She was dressed in a pristine charcoal-gray wool coat, her silver hair pinned up with aristocratic perfection. In her wrinkled, liver-spotted hand, she held an antique pearl-handled revolver.
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Margaret Bennett looked up at her son, her cold blue eyes shining with absolute, triumphant madness.
"You're late for dinner, Daniel," Margaret whispered.
