The Murder House Chapter 8

Below the camera outside my door, I'd installed a device that sprayed tranquilizer mist.

Once I hit the killer with it and he passed out, I could open the door and drag him inside.

Then tie him up tight so he couldn't escape.

My thoughts returned to normal, overcoming fear.

Following my original plan.

Thud, thud, thud...

Thud, thud, thud...

The knocking made my heart race.

"Miss, miss, you home? It's Marcus from property management."

"Heavy flooding tonight—the underground parking garage is taking on water. Do you have a car down there? You need to move it now, or your engine will flood..."

...

Property management?

I swallowed, breathing a slight sigh of relief.

Not the killer?

After the murder three years ago, the building's HOA had hired a much more reliable property management company.

The building manager was diligent, security guards patrolled day and night.

I immediately pressed against the door, looking through the peephole.

Outside was indeed a middle-aged man wearing a raincoat, baseball cap, and face mask.

He stood a bit far back, the cap brim blocking his face—I couldn't see clearly.

"I don't have a car. Thanks though."

Very polite refusal, but the man outside didn't move an inch. No sign of leaving.

"Miss, isn't your scooter parked downstairs? With this heavy rain, the battery will get ruined..."

I hesitated. How did he know I had a scooter?

I immediately opened my phone and posted in the residents' group chat.

Within seconds, someone replied confirming that property management was indeed notifying residents about flooding in the underground garage.

Several people had already gone down to move their cars.

"It's too late. I'm going to bed. Could you please move my scooter for me?"

I relaxed my guard, shouting at the door.

Looked like I was being paranoid.

I couldn't assume everyone was bad just because I'd experienced tragedy.

"No problem, that's what we're here for. Miss, just open the door and give me your scooter key."

I turned my head, grabbing the scooter key from the shoe cabinet.

My other hand on the doorknob—then I jerked it back like I'd been electrocuted.

Images of my sister's brutal death flashed through my mind.

Maybe three years ago, she'd been tricked into opening the door the same way.

Unprepared, murdered by a home invader.

Never trust strangers when facing uncertain danger!

Life came first.

What was a scooter compared to that?