For a week, we barely moved. Then we had to leave for groceries—and that’s when I noticed the sleek black sedan behind us, matching every turn.
“Mom… do you see that?” I asked. She looked back, and her face drained of color. It wasn’t random. Someone was following us on purpose.
When we got home, my blood ran cold—the same sedan was parked down the street, angled toward our house like it had been waiting for us.
Two men sat inside, watching our front door. We bolted inside and locked everything, fear now louder than grief.
I called the only person I trusted to know the truth: my Uncle Larry—Dad’s older brother, and a man who lived for the law.
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