Trigger Point

The Crimson Home

The night felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Neon lights flashed inside the arcade, blinking red and blue, spilling colors across the floor. Machines beeped and buzzed. Kids shouted in excitement. Music played from broken speakers. But none of it reached Marcus Reid.

He sat on a plastic chair near a racing game, his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loose. His phone lay dead in his pocket, the screen black no matter how many times he pressed the button. He had forgotten to charge it. For the first time in years, he wished he hadn’t.

Something felt wrong.

Very wrong.

The gold medal was no longer in his jacket. He had taken it out earlier, afraid it would draw attention. Instead, the small black USB drive rested against his leg, hidden in the pocket. Marcus touched it again and again, as if checking that it was still real.

He tried to laugh when his friends joked. He tried to focus on the game in front of him. But his chest felt tight, like someone had tied a rope around it.

He kept seeing his father’s face.

The fear in his eyes.

The way his voice shook when he said promise me.

Marcus stood up suddenly.

“I need some air,” he muttered.

Jake looked up. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Marcus lied. “Just tired.”

He stepped outside. Cool night air hit his face, but it didn’t help. He leaned against the wall and looked up at the sky. Clouds covered the stars. The street was quiet. Too quiet.

He checked the time on a wall clock through the glass.

9:42 PM.

A chill ran down his spine.

---

At exactly 9:45 PM, a dark shape moved across the front porch of the Reid family house 

Inside, the house was warm and calm. The living room lamp was on. The TV played softly in the background. Jennifer Reid walked toward the front door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

She smiled.

“Marcus?” she called. “Did you forget your keys again?”

She opened the door.

The smile died on her face.

The man standing there was not her son.

He was tall. Strong. Dressed in black from head to toe. His eyes were empty, like nothing lived behind them. A gun rested in his gloved hand, pointed at her heart.

“Where’s the evidence?” the man asked.

Jennifer stepped back, shaking. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please—”

The sound was small. Short. Soft.

Phut.

Jennifer Reid fell to the floor.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t move.

Robert Reid heard the noise from his study. At first, he thought something had fallen. Then he heard the thump.

“Jennifer?” he shouted, standing up.

He ran into the hallway.

He saw his wife lying on the floor. Blood spread beneath her like spilled paint.

“No!” Robert screamed.

The man in black turned calmly and raised his gun.

Robert charged forward, grief and rage driving him. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He only wanted to reach his wife.

Two more soft sounds filled the house.

Phut. Phut.

Robert hit the wall hard and slid down. His eyes stayed open, shocked and confused, as his blood stained the wallpaper he had painted years ago with Marcus.

Upstairs, Sophie Reid sat at her desk.

Her math book was open. Her pencil lay untouched.

She heard the sounds.

They didn’t sound like gunshots to her. They sounded like heavy books falling. She frowned, scared.

“Mom?” she called.

No answer.

Her heart began to race.

Slowly, Sophie stood and walked to the hallway. She peeked through the wooden bars at the top of the stairs.

She saw her parents.

She saw the blood.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out

Then she sobbed.

The man downstairs looked up.

Their eyes met.

Sophie screamed.

She ran.

She ran back to her room, slammed the door shut, and dove into her closet. She pushed past coats and shoes, curled into a ball, and covered her mouth with her hands.

She cried silently.

Footsteps came closer.

Slow.

Heavy.

The closet door opened.

Light spilled inside.

The man knelt down so his face was level with hers.

He did not point the gun at her.

That scared her more.

“You heard them fighting,” the man whispered. His voice was soft, almost kind. “You heard your brother, Marcus, yelling at your daddy.”

Sophie shook her head, crying.

“Yes, you did,” he said gently. “Marcus was angry. He picked up the gun. You heard your daddy say, ‘Put it down, son.’ Remember that.”

Sophie’s mind was breaking. Her heart hurt. Her world was falling apart.

The man’s words filled the cracks.

“Yes,” she whispered, confused and scared.

The man stood.

“You’re a good girl,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

Then he was gone.

---

At 10:15 PM, Jake’s car turned onto Marcus’s street.

Marcus leaned forward.

His house was glowing blue and red.

Police cars.

Sirens.

People.

“That’s my house,” Marcus whispered.

Jake slammed the brakes. “Marcus—”

Marcus was already out of the car.

He ran.

He pushed past yellow tape. Someone grabbed him. He pulled free. He didn’t care. He reached the front steps just as two bodies were rolled out under white sheets.

“MOM!” Marcus screamed. “DAD!”

His legs gave out.

He fell to his knees.

The world went dark.

A man knelt beside him. “Marcus Reid?”

Marcus looked up, tears blurring his vision.

“I’m Detective Raymond Chen,” the man said softly. “I’m so sorry. Your parents are gone.”

Marcus felt like his heart had been ripped out.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

Then the questions started.

“Where were you tonight?”

“Who were you with?”

“What time did you leave home?”

Marcus answered, shaking.

Then another detective stepped forward holding a plastic bag.

Inside was his father’s rifle.

“We found this in the bushes,” the man said. “It came from your house.”

“That’s my dad’s gun,” Marcus said weakly.

“Only two people knew the safe code,” the detective said. “You and your father.”

Marcus felt sick.

“We also found gun residue on your jacket,” the man continued. “And

messages you sent your father earlier. You seemed very angry.”

“I didn’t send those!” Marcus shouted. “My phone was dead!”

He reached into his pocket.

The USB drive was gone.

His breath stopped.

“No… no, no…”

“It’s missing,” Marcus said. “My dad gave me a drive. It proves someone threatened him!”

The detective shook his head. “Victor Castellano has an alibi.”

Handcuffs clicked shut.

As they led Marcus away, he saw Victor standing under a streetlight.

Victor smiled.

And Marcus knew.

His life was over.