I take a slow breath, trying to steady the anger burning through my veins. Sheriff Dawson's presence alone feels like a toxin in the air, but I refuse to let him see me flinch. When my eyes lock onto his, I hold his gaze. This time, he's going to see that his unwanted granddaughter isn't afraid of him or his cruelty.
He keeps trying to intimidate me, but it only fuels my frustration. All I see is a weak old man, yet I feel the weight of our strained relationship and my own anger at his attitude towards me. We will never have a normal relationship. That thought stings, but there was nothing that could be done about it.
"No, Sheriff. I did nothing wrong," I say, hoping my voice sounds nicer than I feel.
"Seems funny, since you move in and then we are constantly over here for one reason or another. You keep making enemies," he says as he walks closer to us. I feel a surge of frustration and unfairness, like he's twisting the situation to blame me. My stomach tightens with the sense that he's dismissing everything; the break-in, the fear, and the danger Zeke and I lived through. My stomach tightens in knots, frustration rising like heat boiling under my skin. And I want him to see how wrong he is.
"Are you really blaming me for this? We were almost attacked in our own home. We barely escaped," I yell, my voice shaking with fury; any manners or respect towards him just flew out the window. He may be my elder and my grandfather, but he doesn't get to treat me like this. My temper flares as my emotions overwhelm me; I'm not sure if I want to cry or punch something like his face. It's a bad time to be dealing with him. Our emotions are running high, and the adrenaline is still there. I stood up, anger radiating off of me. Zeke must think I'm going to hit the sheriff; he quickly grabs my arm to stop me from walking over to the arrogant man. Honestly, if he hadn't held me back, I would have stormed down the stairs and punched him. My rage was at its peak, and my old grandad unwittingly fueled it.
"Sheriff," Zeke says in my place as calmly as he can. "We were almost killed tonight by two intruders. If we hadn't escaped, they were going to shoot us both, yet you stand here and mock the victims. Great law enforcement. Instead of provoking us, how about finding the two men who broke in?"
"Son, you'd better watch that tone and remember who you're talking to," Sheriff Dawson warns. Before Zeke can respond, Andy steps in between us, acting as a shield against his father. At first, Sheriff Dawson is taken aback by this. He must not have thought his son would stand up for us again. As son and father stare at one another, the tension rolls off of them. Sheriff Dawson would love the connection between Andy and me to be a lie; that way, he can erase me from their lives forever.
"Back away, father," Andy says in a low, menacing voice. "Do you want your deputies to see this go down? Doesn't look good for you." A look of shock appears on the Sheriff's face, but it's quickly replaced by irritation.
"Funny, son, you're threatening me. Did you forget who you're talking to? I'm your father," he says, clearly annoyed by Andy's constant protection of us. The sheriff turns to Sharon, thinking she will reason with Andy for him. "Sharon, are you going to sit back and let this girl come between my son and me? If you're not careful, she'll tear your relationship apart, too. She's no good like her mother. Look at all the trouble she's brought to this town since she's moved in?" He is pleading with my stepmother, hoping for her allegiance, but she completely ignores him and lets Andy do the talking. Obviously, isn't fond of her father-in-law either.
"Oh, I didn't forget," Andy says. "I just don't care who you are to me. You will not bully my child or guilt-trip my wife; they are my only family. I wrote you and Mom off years ago." Their voices were loud enough to draw others' attention. Soon, I hear footsteps slowly approaching on the porch. I look up and see that all of the sheriff's deputies have come out to the porch and were watching our family reunion detonate. It was somewhat amusing to see their different reactions—some appear shocked, others angry about our argument with the sheriff, and a few smirk, trying to hide their laughter. We might have been the first to stand up to their boss. Still, none of them seemed surprised to learn that the Sheriff was my grandfather. People say gossip spreads quickly in a small town; they were right.
Sharon was the only other person who saw them walk out. Andy, Zeke, and Sheriff Dawson were all wrapped up in their standoff. I tap Andy and Zeke on the shoulder, then point to the audience that has formed. They shrug their shoulders; the audience doesn't seem to upset or surprise them. The sheriff, on the other hand, has a sour look on his face. He's obviously upset that his subordinates were witnesses to this train wreck.
"We'll finish this conversation later, Andrew," the sheriff snaps at him as if he were still a small child.
"No, we won't, old man. This conversation is over," Andy's says, his tone final. The sheriff starts to step towards him, but stops when he remembers that everyone is watching him. Instead, he turns and takes his anger out on them.
"What are you all looking at?" He barks. His voice echoed over the quiet road as he storms back to his cruiser, mumbling under his breath. The tension in the air is thick, and the crowd disperses, casting wary glances at each other. It surprises me that he uses the superiority act on his own son. The heavy silence is broken only by the distant voices of the investigation as it progresses, leaving behind a scene charged with unresolved conflict and underlying threats.
The deputies came back out and informed us that it would be some time before the crime scene is released, but they assured us we're free to leave if we chose. The only downfall is they wouldn't let us in the house to get a change of clothes. We couldn't see a reason to wait around and needed a safe space to sleep. Andy and Sharon persuaded Zeke and me to accompany them to rent a room at the nearby hotel close to the library in town.
At first, I found it difficult to leave the property; a wave of anxiety grips me. It feels like invisible hands pulling me back toward the house. The connection I feel to it grows stronger every day - unnatural, almost alive. It feels like the house itself is calling to me, whispering in the back of my mind. After a moment, this thought alone makes me realize leaving is our safest choice. We need to clear our heads, and besides, there was truly nothing that we can accomplish at the house tonight, and I gradually accept the need to go. Over and over again, the words repeated in my head, "It's ok to leave for a night, everything will be fine." Each time I chant it in my mind, I hope I will start to believe it.
Instead of driving ourselves, we decide to ride with Andy and Sharon. It was the safest option; we were too exhausted to drive. We collapse into the back seat of the truck and melt into the seats. I was so tired that I fall asleep immediately, even before leaving we are out of the driveway. lying my head on Zeke's lap as he gently strokes my hair, soothing me. His touch brings me comfort. I always felt safe when I'm with him.
They don't wake me when we arrive; Zeke carries me into our room, takes off my shoes, and lays me under the covers. The only thing I can recall is feeling like I'm floating. During the night, Zeke's warm embrace gives me comfort and a sense of safety. Saying we slept all night isn't accurate—I kept having visions of hiding in the safe room, afraid of being discovered. My mind replays different scenarios, leaving me to wake up crying and gasping for air. Poor Zeke was awakened each time, too. I offer to sleep on the floor, but he refuses. He pats my back and says, "I'm here, baby, you're safe, go back to sleep," then gently pulls me back into his arms.
Andy begins knocking on our door around eight in the morning, inviting us to join them for breakfast. Reluctantly, we get up and meet them at the restaurant across the street. Zeke is nervously bouncing his leg beneath the table, clearly eager to speak. To soothe his nerves, I place my hand gently on his leg just above his knee. He responds by softly covering my hand with his, brushing his thumb along my skin, a small gesture that sends warmth through me.
"Rocky, we need to inform Agent Williams about what happened. It could be linked to the incident from years ago and help identify who is responsible for your grandparents' murder," he says urgently. I know he's right, but I can't stop thinking about who we can genuinely trust. Someone out there knows the truth about my family's fate—either a witness or the mastermind. My concern is which one we're dealing with; if it's the culprit, they won't let us escape.
"I know. I need to call Uncle Donovan, too," I suggested. "He may be in danger if they know he's alive." We spent the morning making the phone calls and deciding our next steps. Did we want to continue to stay in the house or figure out other accommodations? To me, leaving the house isn't an option, regardless of what has happened. Zeke disagrees with me; he's worried about my safety. Which I am too, but the pull to that place is too strong. It doesn't feel right to be away from it for too long. Once they realized there was no way to convince me to leave the house, we start to come up with a different plan.
We will need to take immediate steps to reinforce the doors and change the locks after realizing how easily the intruders had broken in. The deputies examined the scene carefully and found no signs of forced entry, which suggests someone may have clandestinely provided them with a key—an incredibly disturbing realization. It meant that someone had unfettered access to our home at any time, which is a gut-wrenching thought. In retrospect, changing the locks right after moving in would have been the smart move, but the sequence of events was unpredictable. Sharon suggests installing extra exterior cameras to catch any future intruders in the act. As we discuss the plans, an overwhelming wave of fear hits me; we have completely overlooked something. We left the crucial paperwork—evidence implicating Dawson and Ted—that could connect them to the disappearance. While I've always suspected a link, I didn't think they were the masterminds—more like pawns manipulated by someone far more powerful. That was a theory I desperately need to confirm. If I'm right, the key question remaining is who was pulling the strings behind the scenes? Filled with a mixture of dread and suspicion, I suddenly stand up, my eyes scanning the faces of all three of them across the table.
"We completely forgot the paperwork; it's still concealed in the attic. Do you think the deputies will manage to find it?" My anxiety and stress become overwhelming—perhaps a little dramatic, or you can say overblown, but I can't control it. An unrelenting need to personally seize the information is crushing me, sending tremors through my chest and spiraling down my spine. If Dawson got hold of it, he'll obliterate it. "We need to find it now," I state.