Chapter 8 - The Blackmail
The steel blade caught the dull gleam of the ambient moonlight, reflection flickering like lightning across Marcus’s hollow, ruthless eyes.
"You really thought you could play hero?" Marcus hissed, stepping over the broken glass on the floor. His jaw was swelling fast where my flashlight had struck, but the physical pain only seemed to heighten his murderous energy. "You're a corporate pencil-pusher, David. You review contracts. I survived eight years in a maximum-security state pen. Do you really think you stand a chance?"
Emily screamed, pulling the duvet over her head as Marcus lunged forward, thrusting the knife straight toward my abdomen.
Adrenaline surged through my veins. Time seemed to slow. Years of high-school wrestling reflexes kicked in before my brain could process the danger. I sidestepped to the left, letting the blade slice through empty air, and locked both of my hands around his wrist.
We slammed against the wall, the heavy framed wedding portrait of Emily and me shuddering before crashing to the floor.
"You don't own this house!" I roared through gritted teeth, using all my momentum to drive his hand against the doorframe.
CLACK!
Marcus grunted in shock as his grip weakened, the knife clattering to the hardwood floor. But before I could kick it away, he slammed his heavy forehead directly into the bridge of my nose.
Pain exploded across my vision in a burst of blinding white light. Blood poured down my lip. I stumbled backward, my footing slipping on the rug.
Marcus grabbed the knife from the floor, wiping his bloody nose with his forearm. He didn't come at me again. Instead, he backed toward the open bedroom door, his chest heaving, his face twisted into a grotesque sneer.
"You think you won tonight?" Marcus sneered, pointing the tip of the blade at me. "Check your phone, smart guy. Look at the email I scheduled two hours ago. The moment my heart rate spikes or I hit a trigger button, that entire murder package—the knife evidence, Emily’s signed confession, and a freshly fabricated statement linking you to the cover-up—goes straight to the King County Prosecutor's Office."
He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing like a predator savoring its prey.
"You want to play tough? Fine. But if I don't see $250,000 cleared in my offshore account by 5:00 PM tomorrow, your wife goes to prison for life, your little girl goes into social services, and you'll spend everything you have on legal fees watching your family burn."
He backed down the hallway, keeping his eyes locked on mine until he reached the stairs. A second later, the heavy thud of the front door echoed through the house, followed by the squeal of tires disappearing into the rain-slicked street.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, wiping the blood from my face. Emily crawled toward me, her arms trembling as she wrapped them around my chest, weeping hysterically.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, David..." she sobbed into my shoulder. "We have to pay him... we have to give him whatever he wants..."
"No," I said, my voice cold, steady, and filled with a dark resolve I hadn't known I possessed. "We pay him once, he'll drain us until we're broke, and then he'll ruin us anyway. He thinks he's blackmailing us."
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I looked down at my phone resting on the nightstand. The micro-camera app had recorded every single second of the fight, every word of his extortion attempt, and the clear shot of his face holding a weapon inside our home.
"He just gave us the one thing he didn't mean to."
