Brandon pressed the intercom again, voice rising. “Mom, don’t be stubborn. There’s a storm coming. You need family.”
Family.
As if he hadn’t tried to weaponize family into a court case.
As if he hadn’t called APS.
As if he hadn’t tried to pry my locks open.
I spoke into the intercom once, keeping my voice low and clear.
“You are trespassing,” I said. “Leave now.”
Brandon’s voice sharpened. “This is ridiculous—”
A siren cut him off, distant at first, then closer.
He turned his head toward the road, and even through the camera I saw his posture change. Not regret. Calculation. He didn’t want deputies on his record again.
Melissa tugged his arm. Patricia gestured in frustration.
Brandon leaned in one last time, trying to salvage the performance. “I’m trying to help you,” he called.
“No,” I said, voice steady. “You’re trying to be seen helping.”
The deputies arrived, headlights cutting through rain. Brandon backed away before they even reached the gate.
By the time the deputy knocked on my front door—professional, calm—Brandon’s car was already disappearing down my street.
The storm outside kept roaring.
But inside my house, something settled.
Not fear.
Certainty.