Page 2 of The Guilty Trial

Thomas stopped typing. His fingers remained poised above the keys, frozen mid-word. He listened, barely breathing.

It was nothing. Just the wind.

He exhaled slowly and shook his head. His imagination was getting the better of him. Too much time alone, too much bourbon, and far too many hours trying to write scenes designed to frighten⁠—

Scritch scritch.

It was deliberate this time. Patient. Metal on metal.

Thomas stood so quickly the chair nearly toppled. He stared at the door as his heart hammered against his ribs. The lantern’s light didn’t reach that far, leaving the entrance shrouded in shadow.

“H—hello?” His voice came out weaker than intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Is someone there?”

The scratching stopped.

Silence pressed in around him. It was thick and suffocating. Thomas scanned the room, searching for something he could use to defend himself. A fire poker, a heavy pan, anything. But the cabin’s minimalist furnishings offered nothing useful. Just the desk, the sofa, and the typewriter.

Crrrrack.

The door burst open.

Wind rushed in, carrying the smell of pine and wet earth. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, perfectly still. Thomas couldn’t make out any features, just a dark shape against the marginally lighter darkness outside.

“Wha—” As Thomas stumbled backward, his hip caught the corner of the desk. “What do you want?”

With slow, unhurried movements, the figure stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the wind with startling finality. Now the cabin felt airless, sealed, and a space far too small for two people.

The intruder remained in the shadows near the door. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching.

“I—I have money.” Thomas’s voice cracked. “In m—my wallet. Take it. Take whatever you want.”

Nothing.

“Ah, please! What is this?” He hated the pleading note that had crept into his voice and the way his hands trembled at his sides. He had faced down murderers in courtrooms, had stared into the eyes of men who had killed without remorse. But that had been different. That had been with bailiffs nearby, with the full weight of federal law enforcement at his back.

Here, there was no one.

The figure lunged.

Thomas tried to move, tried to raise his arms to defend himself, but the man was faster. Something cold punched into his stomach. Thomas looked down, uncomprehending, and saw the handle of a knife protruding from his abdomen. The blade had gone in smooth and deep, with so little resistance that it seemed impossible.

His mouth fell open in protest, but no sound came out.

The man stepped back, leaving the knife where it was. Thomas’s legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, then pitched forward onto the rough wooden floor. The impact jarred the blade, and that was when the pain arrived, white-hot and absolute.

He heard footsteps. The scrape of chair legs against wood. When he managed to turn his head, he saw the intruder had pulled the desk chair away from the typewriter and positioned it a few feet away. The man sat down. His posture was relaxed, almost casual.

He was watching Thomas with what looked like vague disinterest, the way someone might watch a nature documentary they had already seen.

“Help…me,” Thomas gasped. Blood bubbled at his lips. “Please. I’ll give you… anything.”

The man said nothing.

Time became elastic. Thomas felt his thoughts growing sluggish, and his vision began to narrow. He was aware of his own ragged breathing, aware of the cold seeping up from the floor into his body. The lantern’s light seemed dimmer now, or maybe that was just his eyes failing. He thought he heard the hum of the electricity coming back on.

The man stood and moved toward the wall. There was a sound: a plug being inserted into an outlet. Then footsteps returning, and the man’s shadow falling over him.

Thomas tried to speak, to beg, to bargain, but his tongue was slack in his throat. His attacker crouched beside him, close enough now that Thomas could see pale eyes studying him without emotion.