Chapter 4 - The Sound of a Ticking Wrist
The camera froze on an extreme close-up of Richard’s face.
Not a single line near his eye twitched under the dim, dramatic key light.
The shadow of the pistol barrel cast a long, dark spear across his cheekbone.
The shot cut instantly to Toby’s wide, terrified green eyes.
A single tear gathered on his lower lash, holding its weight for two seconds before tracking down his dusty cheek.
On the floor beside his boot, the iron hammer lay motionless among the white wood chips.
His mother’s head rested weakly against the broken rim of the box, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
"Toby..." she rasped, her lips bleeding where the adhesive had torn her skin.
"Toby, don't move."
Toby didn't look at her face.
He kept his small chest squared against the black iron barrel of the gun.
"He took your shoes, Mom," Toby whispered, his voice dropping into a quiet, eerie stillness.
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"He put you in the box with your bare feet."
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