Jim Miller, the locksmith, sat on an ottoman near the fireplace. He looked miserable. He had not touched the wine I offered him. He kept wringing his hands, looking at the door, then at me, then back at the door.
He was the penitent sinner, here to confess. I needed him to be uncomfortable. His guilt was the fuel that would burn down Graham’s narrative of the concerned father.
And then there was Andrea Mott.
She had positioned herself in the corner of the dining room, where the shadows were deepest. She had a clear line of sight to the foyer but remained almost invisible to anyone entering from the front door. Her laptop was open, the screen dimmed to the lowest setting. She was typing notes, her face illuminated only by the faint blue glow.
She had told me she would remain neutral, that she was here to observe, not to intervene.
That was exactly what I wanted.
I did not need a savior. I needed a scribe.
I walked into the foyer, my heels making no sound on the Persian rug I had rolled out to dampen the acoustics.
Officer Tate was there, standing in the alcove beneath the stairs. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes closed. He looked like he was sleeping, but I knew he wasn’t. He was a coiled spring.
“Everything good?” he whispered, without opening his eyes.
“We’re ready,” I said.
I checked the time on my watch. It was 10:15 in the evening.
Outside, the wind was picking up, rattling the windowpanes in their frames. It was a perfect Christmas Eve storm, the kind that usually drives people to huddle around fires with their loved ones.
But my loved ones were not huddling. They were hunting.
I walked to the small table I had set up near the front door.
On it lay a single sheet of paper. It was heavy, cream-colored cardstock. The header read NOTICE OF NO TRESPASS, printed in bold black letters.
Beneath it, in legal language drafted by Grant Holloway, was a declaration that Graham, Marilyn and Derek Caldwell were permanently barred from the premises of 440 Blackwood Lane, and that any entry would be considered a criminal act under Penal Code Section 198.
I ran my finger over the paper. It was sharp. It was a shield and a sword combined.
I went back to the library and looked at the monitors again.
Nothing. Just the snow and the wind.
The waiting was the hardest part.
In my job at Hion, I often had to wait for days after flagging a compliance violation before the regulator swept in. I knew the rhythm of the calm before the crash.
But this was different. This was personal.
My stomach was a knot of cold tension, but my hands were steady. I had rehearsed this scenario in my head a thousand times since yesterday. I knew every line I would say. I knew every move they would make.
They were predictable because they were entitled. They believed the world owed them understanding. They believed that because they shared my DNA, they owned my property.
That arrogance made them sloppy.
At 10:28, the motion sensor on the outer perimeter triggered. A small red light blinked on my screen. I leaned in.
On camera 2, which covered the bend in the driveway, a shape detached itself from the darkness. It was a vehicle, a large dark SUV. It was moving at a crawl, barely five miles an hour, and its headlights were off.
I felt a surge of adrenaline, cold and electric.
They were sneaking in.
They were not coming as guests. They were not coming as family members dropping by for a holiday visit. They were coming like thieves, prowling in the dark to avoid detection.
I picked up my phone and typed a single message to the group chat I had set up with the people in the other rooms.
Target in sight.
Silence.
The murmuring in the parlor stopped instantly. The scratching of Andrea’s typing ceased.
The house plunged into a heavy, expectant silence.
I watched the screen.
The SUV rolled past the open gate. It did not stop. It continued up the long, winding drive, the tires crushing the snow with a soft crunching sound that the microphones picked up clearly.
Then a second vehicle appeared behind it. The rental truck.
They had brought the cavalry.
The SUV came to a halt in the circular turnaround in front of the main steps. The engine cut out, but the doors did not open immediately.
They were sitting there, watching the house.
I could imagine the conversation inside the car.
Graham would be telling everyone to stay calm. Marilyn would be checking her makeup in the visor mirror, preparing her face for the performance of the distraught mother. Derek would be checking his phone, anxious about the time, anxious about his loan sharks.
I walked to the front window of the library. I stood behind the heavy velvet curtain, leaving a sliver of space just wide enough for one eye.
I saw the dark shape of the SUV sitting in the snow. It looked like a hearse.
My phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down. It was a text message from a number I did not have saved, but I knew who it was. It was Marilyn.
Open the door, Clare. It is Christmas. Do not make us do this the hard way.
I stared at the words.
“Do not make us do this.”
As if I were forcing them to break into my home.
As if my refusal to be a victim was an act of aggression.
It was the classic language of the abuser.
Look what you made me do.
I did not reply. I did not delete the message. I took a screenshot and sent it to the folder named EVIDENCE.
I looked back out the window.
The driver’s side door of the SUV opened. Graham stepped out.
He was wearing a black wool coat and leather gloves. He looked up at the dark windows of the manor. He looked angry.
He waved his hand at the truck behind him.
The truck door opened and Derek jumped out. He was holding something in his hand. It was long and metallic.
A crowbar.
