Chapter 3 - The Guest Room Floorboards
The snow was beginning to stick by the time our black utility vehicle cut its lights and turned down the quiet, tree-lined street of my parents' neighborhood.
The house looked dark, save for the warm, golden glow spilling from the living room windows and the harsh security light over the garage where Raymond’s Audi was parked.
Miller killed the engine fifty yards down the block, letting the heavy truck coast silently to the curb beside a bank of frozen snow.
"Perimeter is quiet, Major," Miller whispered, pulling a tactical communications unit from his vest. "No local law enforcement presence. Motion sensors on the front porch are active, but the side service entrance by the cellar is dead—your father never fixed the wiring after the October freeze."
I checked the sidearm strapped securely beneath my heavy wool coat—a standard-issue Sig Sauer P320, its matte-black finish cold against my ribs.
"Give me five minutes to clear the interior," I said, reaching for the door handle. "If I’m not out by zero-six-thirty, you take the team in and secure the premises under federal warrant."
"Ma'am, negative," Miller said, his hand dropping gently onto my arm. "Protocol dictates a two-man entry when dealing with compromised civilian assets. I'm going with you."
I didn't argue. We slipped out of the vehicle into the freezing Illinois wind, moving with the silent, fluid grace drilled into every officer who had ever walked through the gates at Fort Huachuca.
The side service door yielded to a standard tension pick in less than four seconds. The hinges didn't even squeak—Marcus had greased them every winter without fail.
We stepped into the dark, familiar utility hallway that smelled faintly of cinnamon potpourri and old cedar.
From the front of the house, the murmur of a television and the sound of low, tense voices drifted down the corridor.
"...she's insane," Victoria was saying, her voice sharp with panic. "Calling herself a major? Ordering federal troops around like we're enlisted men? Dad, you should have called the police the second those trucks pulled up."
"And tell them what?" Harrison’s voice rumbled back, thick with fatigue and scotch. "That our daughter is a high-ranking intelligence officer who just commandeered her own home? The sergeant didn't even look at me, Victoria. He looked at her like she was a four-star general."
"Raymond says it's a bluff," Victoria insisted. "He checked the registry online. Her name isn't listed on the active defense roster for this district."
"Raymond’s registry is six months out of date," I murmured under my breath.
Miller gave me a sharp nod, gesturing toward the back stairs that led directly up to the guest room—the room my family had so casually reassigned to Raymond’s investment firm.
We moved up the stairs like ghosts, our boots making no sound on the worn floral carpet.
The door to the guest room was closed, but a thin strip of yellow light showed beneath the frame.
I motioned for Miller to hold position by the doorframe. I drew my sidearm, thumbed the safety off with a soft, practiced click, and placed my palm flat against the wood.
Inside, someone was moving boxes around.
"I tell you, it's not in here," Raymond’s voice muttered, sounding frustrated. He was closer to the door now, his footsteps heavy on the bare floorboards where the rug had already been rolled up. "I checked the closet. I checked the desk."
"Look under the floor registers, Raymond," Eleanor’s voice chimed in from the hallway downstairs, drifting up the stairwell. "Marcus always kept his tools under the floorboards near the heating vent."
I didn't wait any longer.
I kicked the door inward with a sharp, explosive snap.
The heavy oak door slammed against the interior wall with a crash that rattled the framed family photographs on the mantel.
Raymond spun around from the corner of the room, a crowbar in his hand, his eyes wide with blind terror. He was kneeling beside an unscrewed heating vent, three floorboards already pried up to expose the dark, dusty cavity beneath.
He froze, the crowbar slipping from his fingers to clatter loudly against the exposed joists.
"Clara," Raymond choked out, his face turning the color of chalk as he looked down at the barrel of my Sig Sauer pointed squarely at his chest. "Clara, wait—we were just—we were just looking for your old photo albums..."
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"Put your hands behind your head, Raymond," I said, my voice cutting through the small room like an icicle. "And don't even think about touching what's in that hole."
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