“Detective Harris. He ran down there.”

“He has a gun.”

The officer spoke rapidly into the microphone clipped to his shoulder.

“Team Two, suspect Harris is heading to the basement. High risk, armed.”

From the depths of the basement, a dull, metallic clang echoed upward through the floorboards.

It sounded like a heavy fire door being forced open.

“He’s trying to get to the storm exit,” I whispered, grabbing the officer’s sleeve.

“The drive. He has a drive with everything on it.”

The officer helped me to my feet, guiding me away from the broken glass and the pool of vinegar.

Julian was being dragged out of the pantry by his collar, his boots dragging uselessly on the hardwood.

He glared at me as he passed, his teeth bared in a bloody snarl.

“This isn’t over, Clara,” he spat.

“You can’t erase what you did.”

“The files are already scheduled to upload.”

An officer shoved him through the kitchen toward the front door.

I leaned against the quartz island, my body trembling uncontrollably.

The kitchen, once my sanctuary of precise measurements and quiet mornings, looked like a war zone.