Not mine. Not Roy’s.
Smaller. Deliberate. New.
And near the pond, the barn door had fresh scratches. Someone had tried prying the nails loose.
This was no prank.
That evening I ran into my friend Lucia at the diner and spilled the whole story. She frowned. “Could it be someone from your ex’s side?”
I shook my head. “He hasn’t cared about this place since he left.”
“Someone’s trying to push you. Intimidate you,” she said flatly. “You need to get ahead of it.”
And that’s exactly what I planned to do.
By nightfall, I had the sheriff’s office involved. I alerted every neighbor in earshot. Roy. Lucia. Even grumpy old Garrison. If someone was trying to rattle me, they were about to find out I don’t scare easy—and I sure as hell don’t stand alone.
Two days later, Roy called, sounding excited. “Saw someone poking around by your fence this morning. Took photos. Slipped off into a truck with out-of-county plates. I wrote the plate number down.”
