For an entire week, the world stopped turning for us. We both called out of work, sitting in the quiet wreckage of our home, waiting for a door to creak open. Eventually, the fridge ran empty, forcing us out for the most basic necessities.
As I drove toward the grocery store, a prickle of unease crawled up my spine. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw a sleek black sedan three cars back. It stayed there through every turn, a silent shadow following our every move.
“Mom, do you see that car?” I asked, my pulse quickening. She looked back, her face turning pale as the sedan mirrored our speed perfectly. It wasn’t just a coincidence; someone was watching us, and they weren’t trying to be subtle.
When we finally returned home, my blood ran cold. The black sedan was already parked sixty feet down our street, waiting for us. Two men sat inside, their faces obscured by the shadows of the cabin, watching our front door like hawks.
We ran inside and locked every bolt, the fear now overshadowing the grief. I reached for the phone to call the only person who might have answers. My Uncle Larry, Dad’s older brother, was a man who lived for the law.
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