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"Jeremy Feldman, this is the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department! Open up!" she shouted.
Silence greeted them. And then, suddenly, a scream pierced the air from inside the house.
"Enough waiting," Finn muttered, his jaw clenched. He stepped back, giving himself some distance. With a powerful kick, fueled by years of military training, he sent the door flying open, splintering the frame.
Once inside the house, Sheila and Finn were met with a scene of chaos. Broken furniture lay strewn about, and papers and trash littered the floor, creating an almost impassable obstacle course. The stench of rotting food hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to breathe.
"What a mess," Finn muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the wreckage.
Sheila nodded, her body tensed like a coiled spring as they moved cautiously through the rooms, weapons drawn. Her thoughts raced, trying to make sense of the disarray while staying alert for any signs of danger. Every creak and groan of the house sent her adrenaline surging, keeping her on high alert.
"Keep your eyes peeled," she whispered, her grip tightening on her gun.
As they cleared the ground floor, Sheila's muscles ached from the tension. She knew that every second mattered and that the slightest misstep could cost them their lives.
Suddenly, she heard faint footsteps overhead. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked at Finn, placing a finger to her lips before gesturing toward the ceiling. His eyes widened, and he nodded in understanding.
They approached the staircase, their movements slow and deliberate. Treading lightly, they began to ascend, the wood beneath their feet groaning softly in protest. Sheila led the way, her senses heightened, ready to react at the first sign of danger.
Sheila reached the top of the stairs, her breathing measured and quiet. The upstairs hallway stretched before her, wallpaper peeling from the walls and exposing the bare wood beneath. Doors lined the corridor, some closed while others stood ajar, revealing rooms filled with debris and disorder.
As she crept forward, Sheila's eyes fell upon a door at the end of the hallway, standing wide open. A dark liquid pooled on the floor just inside, like a sinister welcome mat beckoning them in. Her heart thudded uneasily in her chest as she wondered if it was blood.
She took cautious steps toward the open doorway, her gun held securely in both hands and ready to fire. The closer she got, the more the shadows seemed to shift around her, as though they were alive and reaching out for her. She shook off the feeling and focused on the task at hand.
Upon entering the room, Sheila's gaze swept over the space. It appeared empty, the furniture upturned and possessions scattered about haphazardly. Dust hung heavy in the air, making her want to cough, but she suppressed the urge.
She walked farther into the room, her eyes locked on the dark puddle on the floor. Kneeling down, she cautiously dipped her fingers into the liquid, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. Relief flooded her as she realized it wasn't blood.
"Paint," she said, turning back to Finn with a puzzled expression. "I thought it was—"
Before she could finish the sentence, a figure emerged from behind the door, brandishing a knife and charging straight at her. Time slowed as adrenaline coursed through her veins.
Her instincts, honed by years of athletic training, kicked into high gear. She stumbled backward, raising her gun with practiced precision. Before she could fire, however, Finn barreled into the man, tackling him to the ground.
"Let go!" the man screeched, his words little more than a panicked shriek. "You're invaders! You don't belong here!"
As Finn pinned the man's arms behind his back, Sheila's breathing came in ragged gasps. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. Was this Jeremy Feldman? And if so, why was he attacking them?
"Please," the man whimpered, his face pressed against the dirty, paint-splattered floor. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Shut up!" Finn said, cuffing the man's wrists with a practiced motion. He looked up at Sheila, his eyes dark with concern. "You all right?"
Sheila nodded, lowering her gun with shaky hands. She couldn't shake the image of that knife dangerously close to her own skin. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."
"Good." Finn hauled the now-restrained man to his feet, keeping a firm grip on his arm. "Now let's find out who this guy is and what the hell is going on."
"You think you're so powerful in your crisp uniforms," the man said, his eyes burning with fury. "But I've killed plenty of your kind, and I'd gladly kill two more!"
CHAPTER NINE
Sheila stood in the dimly lit observation room, her gaze fixed on Jeremy Feldman through the one-way mirror as she recalled the way he'd lunged at her with the knife back at his house.
The man looked like a caged animal, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. His fingers crumpled the plastic of one of the two water bottles sitting on the table, betraying his nervousness. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, and he licked his dry lips every few seconds. He was cuffed to the table, but that didn't stop him from fidgeting in the uncomfortable chair.
"Damn," she muttered under her breath, feeling foolish for not having properly cleared the room she found Feldman in. It had been a rookie mistake, one she couldn't afford to make again. She glanced over at Finn Mercer, who leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, studying Feldman just as intently.
"I should've been more careful in there," she said, her voice laced with self-reproach. "I can't believe I let my guard down like that."
