They didn’t wait long.
Glass shattered as a window gave way. The front door crashed open moments later.
Boots stormed inside. Flashlights sliced through the darkness.
“Police!”
Daniel followed, wild-eyed, gripping the bat.
“Find him!” he barked.
They saw me sitting there—still, silent.
“Ma’am, stand up. Show your hands,” one officer ordered.
I didn’t move.
“Where is he?” Daniel demanded, stepping closer.
“Safe,” I said.
He swung the bat—not at me, but at a lamp—smashing it to pieces. Intimidation.
I didn’t flinch.
“Search the house!” he shouted.
“Take one more step toward that hallway,” I said calmly, “and you’re stepping into something far above your pay grade.”
The officer hesitated.
Daniel laughed harshly. “She’s bluffing.”
“No,” I said quietly. “You’re just used to being untouchable.”
Then I glanced toward the laptop on the counter behind me.
“And that’s about to change.”
What followed unraveled fast.
Words turned into accusations.
Accusations turned into doubt.
And doubt turned into fear.
Because Daniel didn’t know what I had—or what I was willing to do.
And people like him always make the same mistake.
They assume power only runs one way.