Minutes dragged by like hours. Lucas pressed against me, trembling. I whispered comforts I wasn’t certain I believed, listening to Brian’s footsteps thud rhythmically—waiting, calculating, deciding.
Then came the sound that cracked the tension: tires grinding up the gravel driveway.
Brian’s head snapped toward the window. His face drained of color. He knew exactly who had arrived.
My father’s truck door slammed so hard the walls vibrated. Heavy footsteps thundered toward the house. The man who had been gentle my entire life was barreling toward the door with a fury I’d never seen.
Brian turned toward me, breathing hard, cornered by his own choices.
And that’s when everything truly started.
The front door flew open, rattling the frame. My father—usually calm, measured—was inside before Brian had a chance to speak. His eyes scanned the room in one sweep: my swollen arm, Lucas clinging to my side, the toppled chair, the fear thick in the air.
“Step away from them,” Dad said, his voice low and steady—the kind of steady that means a storm is coming.
Brian lifted his hands as if that could erase anything. “Frank, let’s just—talk.”