The House That Death Built by Michaelbrent Collings

at Aaron. He was
in too good of a mood.
    Tommy and Kayla finally looked at
him. Their heads swiveled in sync, as though they were connected by strings no
one could ever see. It made them a good team, a good addition to his team.
    But sometimes, when they did
that, it really creeped him out.
    He swallowed the feeling, buried
it under the conviction that tonight –
    ( it all changes )
    – was going to be a very special
night.
    He nodded at them. Then pulled
out the item that had been making the top pocket on his many-pocketed pants
bulge. The gun was as dark as the rest of the kitchen was bright. It took the
reflected light and swallowed it whole. It was an implement that, in Rob's
hands, was meant for one thing only.
    Aaron spoke behind him. "You
said –"
    Again, Rob had a moment. An
instant where he wondered if Aaron really was braver than Rob thought. What
would it cost a man, to stand up to three dangerous people in the dark? And one
of them armed, to boot?
    And, as before, Rob shoved the
thought back. Tamped it down and covered it up with anger. "Shut up and
worry about your part of the job."
    He turned to one of the doors
that led out of the kitchen: the door that, according to the architectural
plans, led into a hall that would provide the easiest access to the rest of the
house.
    He took a step. Then stopped with
his second foot raised mid-stride. Frozen in place by something he had no words
for.
    "What is it?" Kayla
whispered.
    Rob shook his head. "I
don't…." He looked around again. Stoves, refrigerators, center island,
sundry appliances. It was all perfectly appointed, perfectly laid out, perfect
in every way.
    So why were his muscles
quivering? Why was everything inside him suddenly screaming, shrieking, No
no no no watch watch watch out watch out!
    RUN!
    "I don't know," he
finally managed. "Something about the way the kitchen is laid out."
    He looked around. Nothing amiss,
just the perfection that was so absent from his own life, but which he so
deserved.
    That's it. I don't belong.
    No. That's not it. It's….
    "Something," he
murmured. "Something about the way the kitchen is laid out."
    And that was it. He didn't know
what it could be, but something was still tickling him. That threat, that sense
of –
    ( Run run RUN! )
    – an indefinable wrongness that
had set him on edge.
    He shook his head. Shook off the
feeling. His gut had lied to him before. It led him to that job, didn't it?
That one job?
    It's nothing.
    Get moving.
    He looked from Tommy to Kayla.
"Straight to the master bedroom. Keep your eyes peeled on the way, but
unless it's the crown jewels, no side trips."
    They already knew this. It was
what they'd gone over at Rob's house in the hurried moments before everyone
left for the job. But he needed to say it, as though saying the words would
push back his sudden alarm.
    And it worked. He had a plan, he
had a team, they were in control, they –
    "Please." Aaron again.
Staring at Rob's gun, pleading for it to disappear.
    Not gonna happen.
    Rob stared at him with a message
that should make it through the mask with ease: Shut up .
    Message received. Aaron visibly
swallowed, then looked away.
    Rob looked away from him.
    Back to the door that led to the
rest of the house.
    He stepped to it.
    Opened the door.
    It's all coming back to the way
it should be.
    He stepped through. The rest of
the house waited.

16

    It would be easy to stop this.
Just scream. Just one single yell, and it all comes down.
    Aaron almost did it. In the
moment he was alone, the instant after Rob walked out of the room with Tommy
and Kayla hot on his heels, eager to get to the finish line of this ugly race.
    He almost yelled.
    But didn't.
    What if they get away? What if
Rob avoids the cops? Gets back to the city?
    Gets back to Dee ?
    His mouth, half-open for the
burgeoning shout, slowly closed.
    He would end it if he could. But
he couldn't. Because that might be – would be – a death sentence for
Dee. She'd already sidestepped one