Blue and red lights bounced off the living room walls like a nightmare disco, flashing through the broken window and staining everything in strobing panic. Shadows stretched and twisted across the floor, making it feel like the room itself was trembling.

I sat on the couch, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, even though I wasn't cold. Not really. The cold was inside me—deep, crawling through my chest and settling in my bones like frostbite that wouldn't thaw. I kept tightening the blanket around myself anyway, as if it could seal in whatever was left of my safety.

The shattered window had been taped over with a plastic sheet, the kind you use for painting or construction. It flapped in the wind with a soft, ghostly crackle, like it was trying to breathe through wounded lungs. Glass still glittered in the carpet like tiny, jagged stars, catching the light in cruel little flashes. We hadn't even vacuumed it yet. No one had the nerve to move.

A brick lay on the coffee table, bagged in evidence plastic. Just sitting there. Something so ordinary, so heavy and solid, now transformed into a message. A weapon. A promise.

Two uniformed officers were outside, talking with Dad near the driveway. I could see them through the window—gesturing, pointing, scribbling things down. Another stood near the door inside, jotting notes on a clipboard while Mom spoke in a low voice. She kept her arms crossed, her jaw tight, eyes flicking toward us every few seconds. Like she needed to keep checking that we were still there. Still okay. Like she couldn't trust the world not to take us next.

And then there were the two people in suits.

FBI.

Yeah. I didn't believe it either—until one of them flashed a badge and said something about "escalating threats involving a minor."

Lily sat next to me, eyes wide and glossy, clutching a stuffed rabbit so tightly its ears were twisted. Her lips moved now and then, but no sound came out. I didn't know if she was praying or whispering to the rabbit or just trying to breathe.

Sam hadn't said a word in twenty minutes. He was perched on the arm of the couch, one knee up, foot bouncing so fast I thought he might launch into orbit. His jaw kept twitching like he was holding something back—fear, anger, maybe both.

"Emily?" a calm voice said.

I turned and saw one of the agents crouching in front of me. She was tall, with dark hair pulled into a tight braid, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a softer smile that felt like a warm blanket over broken glass.

"My name is Agent Rivas. I know this is a lot. But we're here to help. Do you feel okay answering a few questions?"

I nodded slowly. My throat was dry—sandpaper dry. It hurt to swallow. "Yeah... I guess."

She didn't ask anything right away. Just glanced at the plastic-wrapped brick and then back at me with a look that said she'd seen worse—but wished she hadn't.

"Do you recognize the handwriting?"

I blinked. "Handwriting?"

Agent Rivas handed me a photo—slightly bent at the corner, printed on glossy paper. It showed a crumpled note, the tape still clinging to the edges. It had been wrapped around the brick before it came crashing through our window.

YOU THINK THIS IS OVER? YOU'RE WRONG.

Every hair on my arms stood up. My breath caught. It was like someone had shoved their hand into my chest and squeezed.

"I... no. I don't recognize it," I whispered.

She nodded, as if she expected that. "It's okay. We're going to run tests, compare it to anything on record."

She paused, then leaned in a little closer. "Do you know anyone who might want to hurt you right now?"

I didn't have to think.

"Trevor's still in custody," I said. "But... I don't know. Someone working with him? Someone mad about the trial?"

Agent Rivas exchanged a glance with her partner—a shorter man with thinning hair and a furrowed brow, who had been silently pacing the hallway like a wolf in a cage. He stopped at the doorway and nodded once.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," she said. "But this isn't the first threat you've received, is it?"

I shook my head slowly. "No. There were texts. Emails. Photos. That's why we had to move for a while."

She nodded again. "We've reviewed the case. Now that it's escalated to a physical attack, we're assigning a temporary security detail. We'll also be placing surveillance outside the home."

My stomach turned, tightening like a knot made of wires. "You think someone's watching us?"

"We don't think," the other agent finally said, his voice low and blunt. "We know."

I stared at him. My mind couldn't wrap around those words.

Everything in me went still.

Mom closed the front door behind the last officer, locking it with an extra click like it might somehow make the house more secure. Like a single lock could hold back whatever darkness was out there. The metallic sound echoed in the stillness, final and thin.

The house was too quiet now. Unnaturally quiet. It wasn't just the silence—it was the weight of it. Like even the air had gone heavy. The only sound was the brittle crinkling of the plastic taped over the broken window, fluttering with each gust like a paper lung trying to draw breath in a house that had forgotten how.

"I just... I don't get it," I said finally, my voice breaking the stillness like a dropped plate. "Who would do something like that?"

Everyone turned toward me. But no one had an answer.

Dad rubbed his jaw—slow, tense strokes that said he wasn't thinking straight, just trying to ground himself. He paced a tight path between the couch and the wall, his steps uneven, like the floor didn't feel solid anymore.

"Could be someone tied to Trevor," he muttered. "He caused enough damage already. Wouldn't surprise me if there were others out there just as twisted."

"But he's in jail," Sam said, his voice quiet, almost apologetic. He was curled in the corner of the couch, knees pulled up, eyes shadowed. "He can't throw a brick from jail."

"Doesn't mean he can't ask someone else to," Mom said, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was holding herself together. "Especially if it's someone who believes his lies. Some people don't need much of a reason."

Lily shifted closer to me, hugging her rabbit so tight I thought the seams might pop. Her voice was a whisper. "Do you think it was that Zoe girl?"

My whole body tensed.

That name still made my stomach twist like I'd swallowed something sharp.

Zoe Caldwell.

Tasha's sister.

The girl in the scarf.

The one who showed up with a warm voice and fake concern. Who smiled like she wasn't dangerous—until we learned too late how wrong we were.

"She's supposed to be in custody," I said, my voice hollow. "And Tasha too."

Dad spoke next, his voice more cautious. "And what about that girl from last year?" He looked at me, eyes searching. "What was her name—Sadie? She gave you trouble too."

I shook my head, quickly. "Sadie's been locked up since spring. I doubt it's her. She hated me, but not like that."

As if responding to our growing fear, the living room lights flickered. Just once. Barely noticeable. But it felt like the house shuddered.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps at the front door.

We all froze.

Mom's face tightened. Dad moved toward the door with stiff, careful steps, his hand brushing against the wall as if expecting something to lunge out of the shadows.

He opened the door slowly.

Two figures stood outside—both in dark jackets, their silhouettes framed by the flashing patrol lights still glowing faintly outside. The taller one stepped forward and flashed a badge.

"Mr. and Mrs. Blake? Special Agent Morrison, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Lopez. May we come in?"

Mom stepped back automatically, and the agents entered, scanning the room the way people do when they've seen too many bad things and are trying to guess how this one fits.

"We've reviewed the brick and the note attached to it," Agent Morrison said, pulling out a folded paper from his coat. "The handwriting is being analyzed now. We're also looking into any current or former threats to your daughter."

"Any leads?" Dad asked, his voice rough.

The agents exchanged a look. That glance. The kind that says yes, but you're not going to like it.

"That's why we're here," Lopez said. Her voice was steady, but there was tension under it, coiled like wire. "We've been monitoring Tasha Caldwell and Zoe Caldwell since their arrests. Up until recently, both were accounted for."

She paused.

My heart dropped before she even said the words.

"But as of this morning, we received word from the facility holding Zoe."

I sat straighter, cold washing through me.

"What about Zoe?" I asked, my voice barely more than a breath.

"She's missing," Agent Lopez said grimly. "She escaped custody last night. We believe she may already be in the area."

It felt like the room fell sideways.

The walls tilted. The air thinned.

My heart thudded so loud I could hear it behind my ears.

"No..." I breathed. "No, no, no—she's supposed to be locked up."

"We're increasing patrols near your house," Morrison said quickly, like he'd said it before in a dozen other living rooms. "And we're moving forward with emergency protective measures. We don't want to alarm you—but we do need you to stay alert. If Zoe is targeting you again, she won't stay quiet for long."

Mom didn't say anything. She just stepped over and wrapped her arms around me. Not gentle. Not like a hug. Like armor. Like she could hold back the world with nothing but her body and her will.

"She's coming back," I whispered, my face buried against her sweater. "I can feel it."

And this time?

She might not be alone.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Not even close.

Every sound made me jump—the groan of the old floorboards, the low hum of the refrigerator cycling on, the whisper of wind brushing against the side of the house like invisible fingers testing for weakness. Even the faint blink... blink... of the smoke detector light on the ceiling seemed too loud, too sharp, like a signal begging to be noticed.

I lay there frozen beneath my blanket, barely daring to move.

It felt like déjà vu.

Not just a memory, but a presence. A sensation that wrapped itself around me like smoke—something I couldn't see but knew was there. Not this room. Not this bed. But this feeling.

The edge.

The breath-holding kind of fear that coiled around my ribs and squeezed until my lungs forgot how to work. The kind that whispered: You're being watched.

Even when no one was there.

Even when the door was locked. When the cameras were set up. When the whole block was crawling with cops and agents and patrol cars.

Zoe was out there.

Somewhere in the dark.

And she knew how to hide.

She wasn't like Trevor. She didn't need to scream or threaten or draw attention. She was quieter than that. Smarter. More patient. The kind of danger that didn't knock first.

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, even though the room was already warm, and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. It looked like a sky without stars. Just emptiness stretching forever.

No messages.
No calls.
No taunts.

Not yet.

And that was the worst part.

The silence.

Because silence wasn't safety.

Silence was the breath before the scream.
The pause before the door burst open.
The stillness before everything fell apart.

And every second that passed without something happening?

Just meant we were getting closer to whatever she had planned.

Closer to the moment Zoe stopped hiding.

And started hunting.