Grant promised extra patrols and protection once we went home. That night Rebecca curled beside me in the hospital bed, whispering, “I’m sorry I didn’t run for a nurse.”
“You were brave when I couldn’t be.”
The next morning, Grant returned. “We found his car near the hospital. He’s keeping his distance—for now. You’ll be escorted home.”
Leaving the hospital was unsettling. Rebecca walked close, scanning corners like a child who’d aged years overnight. Officers drove us home, checked every door and window.
But when we stepped inside, all the breath left my lungs.
On the kitchen counter lay a folded note—one none of us had left.
Aaron’s handwriting.
An officer unfolded it with gloved hands. His jaw tightened as he read:
“You can hide behind police and hospital doors, but sooner or later you’ll walk alone. And when you do, we finish what we started.”
Rebecca cried softly. I felt cold all over.
“No forced entry,” the officer said. “He may still have an old key.”
More patrol cars arrived. They searched every room—Lucas’s nursery, my bedroom, the attic. No one was inside, but the violation lingered like a stain.