Chapter 8 - The Rosary
“David, please!” Brittany screamed, dropping the shotgun instantly. It clattered against the hardwood floor. She fell to her knees, holding her hands out in utter surrender. “Don't hurt him. He’s your son. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go back to you. I’ll sign whatever you need.”
David smiled, a cold, empty expression that made my blood run cold. He didn’t lower the knife from Leo’s throat. The little boy was sobbing hysterically, kicking his small legs, but David’s grip was iron.
“It’s too late for apologies, Brittany,” David said, his eyes shifting to me. He noticed the heavy metal lockbox under my arm and the black handgun in my trembling grip. “Well, look at that. The independent sister finally found the deed. Bring it here, Hannah.”
I stood frozen in the hallway. Downstairs, the sounds of a brutal struggle echoed—my mother’s frantic screams, the sickening thud of fists against flesh as my father fought the tattooed thug.
Answer One, Open Two.
Answer: Grandma's secret was an escape fund for Brittany, proving she loved us both.
Open: How do I save Leo without giving David the deed that would allow them to destroy our lives?
I slowly raised the handgun I’d snatched from Silas. My hands were shaking so badly the barrel wobbled. I had never fired a gun in my life.
“I’ll shoot you, David,” I lied, my voice cracking.
David laughed. “No, you won't. You’re a coward, Hannah. Just like your father. You pull that trigger, and even if you hit me, my hand spasms and your nephew dies. Put the gun down and kick the box over here.”
I looked at Brittany. She was mouthing the word Please, tears streaming down her face. Max, the other twin, was cowering in the shattered bathroom, crying for his brother.
I couldn't risk the child.
I slowly lowered the handgun and placed it on the floor. I knelt down and set the metal lockbox on the carpet.
“Kick it,” David ordered.
I pushed the box across the smooth hardwood. It slid and bumped against David’s polished shoe.
David kept the knife at Leo’s throat with his right hand while he awkwardly bent his knees, using his left hand to flip the lid of the box open. He saw the watermarked deed. He saw the bright blue folder.
He frowned, using his thumb to flip open the folder. His eyes scanned the Swiss bank book and the open-ended first-class plane ticket.
David’s face twisted in genuine rage. He looked at Brittany. “You were going to run? You had two million dollars waiting for you, and you were going to take my boys to Geneva?”
“I didn't know!” Brittany cried. “I swear, I didn't know about the money!”
David’s grip on Leo tightened. The knife pressed dangerously close to the boy’s skin. “You lying—”
Suddenly, a deafening roar echoed from the hallway behind me.
My father charged up the stairs.
He was unrecognizable. His face was a mask of blood and swelling, his expensive suit torn to shreds. His hands were still zip-tied in front of him, but he moved with the desperate, unstoppable momentum of a freight train.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't say a word.
My father launched himself off the floorboard, diving headfirst through the air directly at David.
“Dad, no!” I screamed.
My father’s heavy shoulder slammed squarely into David’s chest. The impact threw David backward, crashing through the remaining glass of the master bedroom window and out onto the flat porch roof.
As David fell, his grip on Leo slipped. The boy tumbled onto the bedroom floor, miraculously unharmed.
Brittany scrambled forward, snatching Leo up and dragging him and Max into the hallway, shielding them with her body.
Outside on the porch roof, David roared in fury. He scrambled to his feet, raising the knife, and lunged back through the window frame toward my father, who was struggling to stand with his bound hands.
David drove the knife forward.
My father twisted, taking the blade deep into his left shoulder. He let out a choked gasp, but instead of pulling away, he threw his zip-tied arms over David’s head, trapping the younger man in a clumsy, desperate chokehold.
“Run, Hannah!” my father roared, blood spraying from his lips. He drove his weight forward, forcing David backward toward the edge of the slanted roof. “Get them out!”
“Dad!” I screamed, stepping into the bedroom.
“Go!” he bellowed.
Suddenly, the piercing wail of police sirens flooded the street. Red and blue lights bounced frantically off the trees in the garden. This time, it wasn't two corrupt patrolmen. Four heavily armed swat vehicles tore across my front lawn, tearing up the grass.
Officers swarmed out, aiming assault rifles at the porch roof.
“Boston Police! Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air!” a megaphone boomed.
David froze. He looked down at the army of police officers surrounding the house. He looked at my father, bleeding heavily, still gripping him in a headlock. The fight instantly drained out of the young monster. David dropped the knife. It clattered on the shingles and slid off the roof into the bushes.
“Don't shoot!” David yelled, raising his hands.
Two SWAT officers kicked the remains of the front door in, storming up the stairs. They rushed past me, grabbing David and hauling him back through the window, throwing him roughly to the floor and snapping heavy steel cuffs onto his wrists.
Another officer gently grabbed my father, cutting the zip-ties off his wrists and applying pressure to the stab wound in his shoulder.
My father sagged against the wall, panting heavily. He looked at me, then at Brittany, who was clutching the twins, sobbing into their hair.
“Are they safe?” my father whispered.
“They’re safe, Dad,” I choked out, tears finally blurring my vision.
The paramedics rushed up the stairs. As they loaded my father onto a stretcher, he reached out with a bloody, trembling hand and grabbed my wrist.
He pressed something small and hard into my palm.
“I’m sorry, Hannah,” my father wept, his eyes filled with a lifetime of regret. “I was so weak. I let him destroy us. But I saved the last piece. Grandma gave it to me before she died. She said to give it to you when it was over.”
The paramedics wheeled him away.
I opened my hand.
Sitting in my palm was my grandmother’s wooden rosary. The one she carried to church every Sunday.
I ran my thumb over the wooden beads. One of the beads near the crucifix was cracked. I squeezed it gently, and the wooden shell split in half.
Inside was a tiny, rolled-up piece of paper. I unrolled it.
It was a locker number for the Boston South Station train terminal.
Answer One, Open Two.
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Answer: My father had finally found his courage, sacrificing himself to save his grandson.
Open: The nightmare with Silas was over, but what was the final piece my grandmother had left waiting at the train station?
