Grant promised extra patrols and protection once we went home. That night Rebecca curled beside me in the hospital bed, whispering, “I’m sorry I didn’t run for a nurse.”
“You were brave when I couldn’t be.”
The next morning, Grant returned. “We found his car near the hospital. He’s keeping his distance—for now. You’ll be escorted home.”
Leaving the hospital was unsettling. Rebecca walked close, scanning corners like a child who’d aged years overnight. Officers drove us home, checked every door and window.
But when we stepped inside, all the breath left my lungs.
On the kitchen counter lay a folded note—one none of us had left.
Aaron’s handwriting.
An officer unfolded it with gloved hands. His jaw tightened as he read:
“You can hide behind police and hospital doors, but sooner or later you’ll walk alone. And when you do, we finish what we started.”
Rebecca cried softly. I felt cold all over.
“No forced entry,” the officer said. “He may still have an old key.”
More patrol cars arrived. They searched every room—Lucas’s nursery, my bedroom, the attic. No one was inside, but the violation lingered like a stain.
Grant returned again. “This was planned. He’s patient. And patient men are unpredictable.”
A tremor ran down my spine. “So what do we do?”
“You follow every safety step we give you. And you don’t go anywhere alone.”
Rebecca clung to me, exhausted. Outside, officers kept watch. But fear still coiled tight inside my chest.
Later that night, the power flickered—the whole block—and for a split second the house plunged into darkness. Officers checked the street immediately, and Grant stayed with us for hours.
“He wants you afraid,” he said. “But fear only has power if you let it.”
I looked at my sleeping children and felt something harden inside me. Determination. Defiance. Maybe even hope.
“This ends with us getting our lives back,” I whispered, touching Lucas’s tiny hand. “Not with him winning.”
