“Local community groups,” Mike said. “Trying to fish for your evacuation plans. He’s asking where you’ll go, who’s checking on you, whether anyone has keys.”
The storm outside wasn’t the only one building.
“Okay,” I said, voice steady. “Keep tracking.”
That evening, as the wind began to howl and the first hard rain hit the shutters, my driveway camera lit up.
A car.
I leaned closer to the feed, and my stomach turned cold.
Brandon, stepping out, hood up, walking toward my gate like he belonged there.
Not alone.
Melissa was with him.
And behind them, Patricia.
A full theater cast, ready for a “concerned family” scene.
I didn’t open the door.
I didn’t step onto the porch.
I watched them from the security screen as Brandon tried the keypad I’d installed and failed. Then he pressed the intercom button.
His voice crackled through the speaker. “Mom,” he said, louder than necessary. “It’s me. We came to make sure you’re safe.”
I lifted my phone and called the sheriff’s office with the same calm I used when vendors tried to slip extra fees into contracts.
“This is Eleanor Sterling,” I said. “Protective order violation in progress. My son is at my property attempting entry.”