While I was at work, my parents, my sister, and her two kids were already hauling boxes into my mountain house. Mom smiled like it was settled. “We all live here now. It’s family property.” They planned their big “move-in day.” I planned something else.

Every turn in the road felt like a countdown. Every tree branch brushing the hood sounded like an intruder at the door.

When my cabin finally appeared between the pines, two police cruisers were already parked out front, blue lights flashing silently through the cold dusk.

Their presence painted the snow in eerie color, and underneath that wash of blue, I saw the uniform shapes of officers near my back deck.

My stomach dropped.

Gloria stood on her porch in a cardigan, arms wrapped around herself despite the cold. The instant she spotted me pulling in, she hurried toward the driveway.

“Oh thank God you’re here,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to show this scared her too. “I didn’t know what else to do. I heard someone on your deck—heavy footsteps—then the door handle rattling.”

My pulse hitched.

“Did you see who it was?”

She shook her head.

“I was too far away. But it looked like a woman. Dark hair. She ran off toward the road before the police arrived.”

Dark hair.

The words sliced through the air like a knife.

“Lydia,” I murmured.

Gloria’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“I thought so too.”

I walked past her before I could respond, needing to see for myself.

Officer Hartman—the same deputy from move-in day—stepped toward me, expression professional but edged with concern.

“Ms. Monroe,” he said. “Good thing you came quickly.”

“What happened?” My voice came out tight, clipped.

Hartman gestured toward the back deck.

“We found evidence of a forced entry attempt. Looks like someone tried to pry open your doorframe.”

I followed him, boots crunching across the frosty planks. There it was—the damage, illuminated by a beam from the officer’s flashlight.

Fresh gouges in the wood around the lock. Splintered edges where a tool had been wedged between door and frame.

Someone had tried to break into my home.

I reached out and touched the wood, the grooves biting back against my fingertips.

My heart thudded a slow, painful rhythm.

“She really did it,” I whispered. “She actually tried.”

Hartman’s voice softened.

“You know the person, most likely.”

“My sister,” I said, swallowing hard.

He nodded grimly.

“Your neighbor’s description matches. And you already have a standing trespass record for her.”

“Can you arrest her?” I asked.

“Not without clear identification or footage,” he said. “But this incident strengthens your case if she attempts anything again.”