Page 25 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

The cab driver waves and laughs. “My name’s Kevin. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

He turns the corner, and I realize we’re only a minute away from the street I grew up on. It’s a neat little cul-de-sac with broad sidewalks and bright lawns. The neighborhood kids ride their bikes to each other’s houses and leave them laying in the grass. Little girls set up lemonade stands in the summer.

“What’s the house number again, Ms. Liv?”

“Further down on the right,” I instruct him. “112.”

Mom and Dad moved into the house when Mom was pregnant with Mia. They’d had Rob in an apartment in the city, but once they knew there was a second baby on the way, they made the move to the ‘burbs. So when I came along, we were well-ensconced in Suburbia. I was born and raised right here.

Until I moved out on my own, this was the only home I’d ever known.

“This is it,” I say, pointing out the house to him. It’s straight out of middle-class America Central Casting: white shutters, dark gray roof tiles, a tidy sidewalk dividing the front yard into two symmetrical rectangles.

“Nice place. Cute.”

“Thanks, Kevin,” I grab two twenties out of my wallet and hand them over. “Keep the change. And happy holidays.”

It’s an abrupt end to our conversation, but now that I’m outside the house, I can’t wait another second. I want to get inside and find out why my family dropped off the face of the planet.

The cab trundles off as I make my way up the paved path to the front door. Usually, Mom greets me at the door, opening it before I can even reach the steps.

But today, there’s no movement anywhere. Quiet as the grave.

I knock and ring the doorbell repeatedly. “Mom!” I call out. “Mia!”

When still no one answers, I try the door handle. To my surprise, it swings open immediately.

Our neighborhood is as safe as it gets. Always has been. But Mom always, always keeps her door locked. “Can’t be too safe,” she said whenever anyone asked for as long as I can remember. She’d drive twenty minutes back home if she thought she might’ve forgotten to throw the deadbolt.

I step inside as foreboding fills my veins like acid.

Everything looks right: picture frames in their place on the entryway table, keys hanging from the silver hooks on the wall.

But nothing feels right.

The house is too quiet. Something acrid like burnt sugar fills the air. Mom’s love language is baked goods in every shape and form, but the woman is religious about her kitchen timers. She never burns anything.

“Mom?” I call again, quieter this time. “Mia?”

I hear a chair in the other room scrape slowly across the hardwood floor. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

No one in our house is a chair scraper. Dad ranted and raved about us scratching the hardwood floors to the point that we all learned to lift our chairs when we moved them. It’s ingrained. An unconscious habit that even him passing couldn’t extinguish.

I move towards the living room, and the thought idly crosses my mind that I should look for a weapon. But disbelief keeps my arms pinned to my sides, keeps my feet moving forward.

When I turn right into the sitting room, I stop short. A gasp lodges in my throat.

They’re all there.

Mom.

Mia.

Rob.

But tape covers their mouths, and their hands and legs are tied with thick rope to the dining room chairs.

Mia and Mom look terrified, though otherwise unharmed. But Rob… there’s a trickle of blood running down the side of his face from his forehead. His eyes are dazed, but behind that daze is fury.

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