She turned back to the cabin door, her expression turning from anger to absolute panic.

She began to run toward the porch, her high heels slipping on the icy wooden steps.

“Open the door!” she shrieked, pounding her fists against the thick wood.

“Open it, you pathetic little thief! Give me the files!”

Inside, Emma began to cry, the loud pounding terrifying her.

I ran to the couch, pulling her into my arms and holding her tight.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” I whispered, though my own hands were shaking.

The pounding stopped.

A loud, metallic click echoed from the porch.

The doorknob began to turn.

The lock clicked, and the heavy oak door swung inward.

Cold wind swept into the cabin, carrying a flurry of fine, dry snow that scattered across the hardwood floor.

Vanessa stood in the doorway, her breathing shallow and ragged.

Her expensive wool coat was torn at the shoulder, and her blonde hair clung to her wet cheeks in messy strands.

In her right hand, she held a small, silver-plated pistol, her fingers trembling so hard the barrel shook.