The knock on the gate came just after noon.
Not the polite kind. Not the scheduled kind announced by a calm voice over the intercom or logged neatly by security.
This knock was sharp. Heavy. Insistent.
The kind that didn’t ask for permission.
I was sitting on the living room floor with Liam, crayons scattered between us like spilled candy, when the sound echoed through the house. Liam jumped, the green crayon dragging an angry line across his dinosaur.
“What was that?” he asked, eyes wide.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
“I’ll check,” I said, already standing, forcing my voice to stay light.
The house felt too quiet as I walked toward the security screen. The marble beneath my feet felt colder than usual. I told myself it was nothing. A delivery truck. A wrong address.
I told my
