Chapter 6 - The Men at the Door
The heavy pounding on the front door echoed up the stairwell like hammer blows against an anvil.
Mark didn't flinch. He didn't look surprised, nor did he make a move toward the stairs. Instead, he stood rigidly in the hallway, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on me with a chilling mixture of exhaustion and dread.
“Who is that?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs as the doorbell rang a second time, sharper and more insistent.
“You shouldn't have opened that box, Sarah,” Mark said, his voice dropping into a tense, desperate hiss. “I told you this morning—you didn't know what you were asking about.”
“Are those cops down there, Mark? Did you call the police on your own wife, or are they here for you?”
Before he could answer, a deep, authoritative voice boomed from the foyer downstairs, amplified by the hollow acoustics of the house:
“FBI! Open the door!”
The words hit the hallway air like a physical shockwave.
My breath caught in my throat. The world tilted sideways. FBI. Not a jealous lover. Not a routine domestic dispute. Federal agents standing on our welcome mat at 11:30 on a Tuesday morning.
Mark closed his eyes for a brief, defeated second, then looked at me. “Stay in this hallway. Do not move, do not go into the office, and whatever you do, do not say a word about the lockbox.”
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Without waiting for my response, he turned on his heel and walked down the stairs.
I stood frozen, paralyzed by a mixture of terror and disbelief, watching through the balusters as Mark unlocked the front door and pulled it open.
