I had just given birth when my eight-year-old daughter ran into the hospital room, her eyes wide and alert. She closed the curtains, then whispered right against my ear: “Mom… get under the bed. Right now.” My heart clenched, but I did as she said. The two of us lay close together beneath the bed, trying to keep our breaths as quiet as possible.

Grant returned again. “This was planned. He’s patient. And patient men are unpredictable.”

A tremor ran down my spine. “So what do we do?”

“You follow every safety step we give you. And you don’t go anywhere alone.”

Rebecca clung to me, exhausted. Outside, officers kept watch. But fear still coiled tight inside my chest.

Later that night, the power flickered—the whole block—and for a split second the house plunged into darkness. Officers checked the street immediately, and Grant stayed with us for hours.

“He wants you afraid,” he said. “But fear only has power if you let it.”

I looked at my sleeping children and felt something harden inside me. Determination. Defiance. Maybe even hope.

“This ends with us getting our lives back,” I whispered, touching Lucas’s tiny hand. “Not with him winning.”