PART 2 — New Locks, Old Threats
“Change the locks,” I told Ryan.
He didn’t ask if I was overreacting. He just nodded and started pulling up a local locksmith on his phone. By nightfall, our deadbolts were brand new, our key codes were reset, and the spare key I’d once hidden for “family emergencies” was officially useless.
For two days, there was nothing but a haunting quiet.
On the third day, my phone buzzed with a voicemail from Frank. There was no greeting, no “how are you,” just his voice thick with a familiar, dangerous anger.
You think you can embarrass me? You owe us. Open your door when I come.
Ryan looked at me, trying to be the anchor. “He’s not coming,” he said firmly. But I saw his eyes flick toward the front window every time a car drove by.
That evening, just as the streetlights clicked on, a furious, rhythmic pounding detonated against our front door.
“LENA!” Frank bellowed from outside. “OPEN UP!”
Ryan stepped toward the peephole, but at that exact moment, flashes of red and blue lights washed across our living room walls. Sirens followed, sharp and official, cutting through the neighborhood silence.
Frank’s voice lifted, sounding triumphant.
