It was Trevor.

He held a heavy black pistol in his gloved right hand, pointing it directly at us.

“Going somewhere, Emily?” Trevor asked, his voice smooth and quiet.

Behind him, three large men in tactical gear raised their weapons.

My father whimpered, pulling the wooden bird close to his chest.

Charles stepped in front of us, blocking Trevor’s view.

“It is over, Trevor,” Charles said. “The police know everything.”

Trevor let out a soft, dry laugh that was lost in the wind.

“There are no police coming, Mr. Whitmore,” Trevor said.

“Julian Bellamy owns this entire block.”

“And tonight, we are putting an end to this little family reunion.”

Trevor raised the gun, aiming it straight at Charles’s chest.

Just as his finger began to tighten on the trigger, a loud metallic screech echoed from the wall beside us.

The heavy steel delivery door of the laundry room began to slide open.

The door screeched back, releasing a thick, white cloud of hot steam into the freezing night air.

The sudden warmth hit my face, smelling of bleach and wet linen.