The night felt colder than before, the air thick with unease as the group gathered in the kitchen. The note pinned to the wall with the knife seemed to taunt them, its message etched in jagged handwriting: “You can’t run forever.”
John paced the room, his gun still in hand, while Margaret examined the broken window. Ethan stood by the doorway, his arms crossed, and his expression grim. Tara lingered near the firelight in the next room, her gaze distant.
“This wasn’t random,” John said, his voice tight. “Whoever it was wanted to send a message.”
Claire sat at the table, her hands trembling as she stared at the note. “Do you think it was Robert?”
“Most likely,” John replied, stopping in front of her. “Or someone working for him. Either way, they know where we are.”
Margaret turned from
