My breath caught in my throat.
They were not going to knock.
They had tried the locksmith and that had failed. They had tried the police and that had failed.
Now, under the cover of a dark Christmas Eve, they were resorting to brute force.
I signaled to Officer Tate in the hallway.
He nodded and moved deeper into the shadows, his hand resting near his hip.
Graham and Derek walked up the stone steps to the front porch. I could hear their boots heavy on the wood.
I moved away from the window and stood in the center of the library. I could see the front door through the open archway. I waited.
There was no doorbell. There was no knock.
There was a scratching sound. Metal testing wood.
Then a thud.
Then another thud, harder this time.
They were testing the frame. They were looking for the weak point.
I heard Graham’s voice, muffled but audible through the thick oak.
“Just pop the side pane,” he said. “The one near the handle.”
I watched the door handle jiggle violently. The deadbolt held firm. The secondary latch held firm. I had reinforced this house to withstand a siege, and it was doing its job.
But they were determined.
I heard the distinct high-pitched scrape of a tool being wedged into the doorjamb. It was a sound that set my teeth on edge. It was the sound of violation.
Inside the parlor, I heard a gasp from Mrs. Higgins. She had heard it, too. The reality of what was happening was sinking in for my guests. This wasn’t a theoretical dispute. This was a physical attack on a home.
I looked at the phone in my hand. It was 10:32.
Every second they spent on that porch was a second they were digging their own graves.
Every scratch on the door was a felony.
Every minute they spent trying to break in while I stood silently inside was proof that they were not here to love me.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment, grounding myself. I thought of the seven-year-old girl sitting on the stairs, waiting to be remembered.
I told her to be quiet. I told her that tonight she didn’t have to wait anymore.
Tonight, the people who forgot her were going to find out exactly who she had become.
The scratching stopped.
There was a moment of silence.
Then a loud, ringing crack echoed through the foyer.
It was the sound of metal striking metal.
Derek had swung the crowbar.
He wasn’t attacking the wood anymore. He was attacking the lock itself.
I opened my eyes.
“It begins,” I whispered.
The metallic crack of the crowbar against the lock was the starting gun.
I watched the security feed on my phone with a strange, detached fascination. It was happening exactly as I had predicted. Yet seeing it—actually watching my father and brother assault my front door like common criminals—felt surreal.
But they weren’t just relying on brute force this time.
They had brought backup.
Through the window, I saw a fourth figure standing nervously behind Graham.
It was another man in workwear, holding a drill case. He wasn’t Miller. He was younger, shiftier, looking around at the dark trees with obvious apprehension.
Graham had evidently found a locksmith who asked fewer questions. Or perhaps he was paying this one double to ignore the screaming red flags.
Graham turned to the new locksmith, shouting over the wind.
“Drill it! The key broke off in the lock. We have the deed right here.”
He waved a sheaf of papers in the air. It wasn’t the forged lease this time. I zoomed in on the camera feed. It looked like a power of attorney form.
They had escalated.
They weren’t just claiming tenancy anymore. They were claiming I was incompetent. They were trying to seize control of me, not just the house.
The new locksmith hesitated.
“This doesn’t look right, buddy. The lights are all out.”
“Just do your job,” Graham roared. His facade of the polite gentleman was completely gone. “My daughter is inside and she’s not responding. She’s a danger to herself. We have medical power of attorney.”
Marilyn, standing on the bottom step, picked up her cue instantly. She looked up at the dark house and wailed.
“Clare, honey, open the door. Mommy’s here. We just want to help you!”
It was a performance worthy of Broadway. She was clutching her chest, her face contorted in practiced agony, but I knew better.
I zoomed in on her face. Her eyes were dry. They were scanning the windows, looking for movement, calculating the odds of success.
And then there was Derek.
He wasn’t helping with the door. He was standing back near the porch railing, holding his phone up. The screen was glowing bright in the darkness.
He was live streaming.
“Hey guys,” Derek was saying to his invisible audience, likely the few creditors and crypto bros still following him. “We’re here at the family estate. My sister’s gone totally rogue. She locked us out on Christmas Eve, but we’re not giving up. We’re taking back what belongs to the family. Justice for the Caldwells, right?”
He panned the camera to Graham, yelling at the locksmith, then to Marilyn, crying.
He was building a narrative. He was documenting his own crime and calling it heroism.
I signaled to Andrea in the kitchen. She nodded, her pen hovering over her notebook. She was writing down every word.
In the parlor, Arthur Abernathy and the historical society members were frozen. They were watching the live feed I had cast to the television screen above the fireplace. Their faces were a mixture of horror and disgust.
To them, this wasn’t just a break-in. It was a desecration of the neighborhood’s peace.
Outside, the locksmith finally caved. Graham’s bullying was effective.
The man stepped up to the door and pressed his drill against the deadbolt. The sound of drilling filled the house again, louder this time, vibrating through the wood.
But Derek was impatient.
He put his phone in his pocket and grabbed the crowbar again.
“Forget the drill!” Derek shouted.
