Chapter 2: The Face in the Shadow

The footsteps stopped. Not a cautious halt, but a sudden, confident pause, the soles of expensive leather shoes resting barely a foot from Marcus’s face. He could smell a faint scent—cologne mixed with stale cigarette smoke—a combination that immediately tightened the knot in his stomach.

“You always leave such a mess, Marcus…”

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The voice. It was deep, laced with casual contempt, and the familiarity was now twisting into a grotesque recognition, clawing at the edges of his memory. It wasn’t a burglar’s whisper; it was the irritated complaint of someone who had every right to be annoyed.

Beneath the bed, Marcus’s world narrowed to the sight of the intruder’s shoes: polished, dark brown Oxfords with a slight scuff on the left heel. He focused on those shoes, willing them to move, praying they wouldn’t see the faint dust disturbance where he had slid in. His heart hammered against the floorboards, a loud, frantic drumbeat that surely had to be audible in the suffocating silence.

Then, the man sighed, a long, exasperated sound. The shadow above him shifted. Marcus heard the distinct click of a belt buckle unfastening, followed by the heavier sound of trousers dropping to the floor.

He was undressing. This wasn’t a quick search for valuables; this was preparation.

The man began pacing again, but slowly this time, his steps bare-footed now, light padding sounds on the hardwood. He was moving toward the closet, which was a terrifying thirty-second walk away.

Marcus took his chance. The terror hadn’t faded, but the need to identify the intruder now overpowered the paralyzing fear. He needed a name, a face, before he made a move. Slowly, agonizingly, he shifted his weight, easing his head forward until his eye lined up with the slight gap between the floor and the comforter he’d pulled down.

The intruder was standing by the dresser, his back mostly to the bed. He was wearing a slightly stained white undershirt and boxer briefs. He was older, perhaps mid-fifties, with a powerful, thick-set build that hadn’t surrendered entirely to age. He carried himself with the heavy entitlement of someone accustomed to having his needs met instantly.

He was running a hand through a shock of thinning, silver-streaked hair.

And then, the man turned, picking up a framed photograph from the dresser—a photo of Marcus and his late mother—and his face came fully into view.

Marcus swallowed a scream. His muscles, previously locked in terror, now spasmed violently with disbelief. The shoes, the cologne, the voice, the irritating tone, the intimate knowledge of his life, the casual possession of his space—it all slammed into place with sickening clarity.

It was David Thorne.

Not a burglar. Not a random squatter. It was David Thorne, his mother’s former fiancé, the man who had inexplicably vanished from their lives three years ago, leaving behind a wake of broken promises and unpaid medical bills that had nearly ruined Marcus.

David stood there, looking at the photo of Marcus and his mother, Diana. A genuine, melancholic expression crossed his face—a look that, for a fleeting second, confused Marcus more than the intrusion.

“Diana, my love,” David murmured, his voice now soft, almost heartbreakingly tender. “You raised a clueless idiot, but you raised a kind one. I’m almost done, I promise.”

He gently set the photo down. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by the calculating expression Marcus remembered from the last terrible financial discussion he’d had with him. David walked over to Marcus’s desk, yanked open the drawer, and began rummaging with crude force.

The yelling. That’s what Mrs. Halvorsen had heard. David must have been talking to himself, or perhaps on the phone, forgetting the basic rule of a covert operation: silence.

Why was he here? And how did he get in?

Marcus mentally reviewed the house’s security. There was no spare key. He had changed the codes after his mother died. The front door hadn’t been kicked in.

David pulled out Marcus’s locked, fireproof safe box—the one where Marcus kept important personal documents and his late mother’s modest jewelry collection. David didn’t hesitate. He took a small, silver object from his pocket—Marcus couldn’t quite make out what it was—and jammed it into the box’s lock. There was a low, mechanical whirring sound, followed by a quiet click.

The safe was open. David had picked the lock as easily as opening a drawer.

Marcus’s mind raced. David wasn’t just hiding; he was performing a sophisticated operation. He wasn’t just stealing jewelry; he was after documents—or something else Marcus didn’t know he possessed.

The question of how he entered suddenly became terrifyingly clear. David had lived here. He knew the weaknesses, the old window locks, the precise jiggle needed to bypass the side door deadbolt that Marcus had been meaning to replace for months. He didn’t need a key; he had the home’s muscle memory.

David began pulling items out of the box—Marcus’s passport, birth certificate, his mother’s wedding ring—shoving them casually into a large duffel bag he had discreetly placed by the chair.

Then, David stopped. He picked up one last item from the bottom of the safe—a thick, sealed envelope marked “DIANA’S WILL – DO NOT OPEN.”

A triumphant, vicious grin spread across David’s face. “There you are, you slippery little document,” he whispered. He didn’t open it; he simply secured it inside the duffel bag, zipped the bag shut, and tossed it over his shoulder.

He looked around the room, his eyes scanning everything, from the closet door to the window blinds. For a heart-stopping moment, his gaze dropped to the floor, inches from the low-hanging comforter. Marcus held his breath, praying that the shadow he cast wasn’t enough to betray the slight rise of the duvet.

David shrugged, apparently satisfied, and walked toward the bathroom. Marcus heard the faucet run, then the sound of water splashing against the sink. He was taking his time. He was completely comfortable in Marcus’s home.

Marcus knew he had to move. If David left with the duffel bag, everything Marcus had left—his identity, his mother’s last wishes, his peace of mind—would be gone forever. The fear was still there, but it was now weaponized by raw fury.

As the sound of running water masked any slight noise, Marcus slowly, inch by agonizing inch, began to slide backward under the bed. He needed to reach the opposite side of the room, near the door, where he could grab the heavy, brass lamp…