Chapter 16 - The Night WatchWe did not go home.
Denise called Officer Daniels. Daniels called patrol. I called the security company. Within twenty minutes, police were outside our house, checking the street, nearby vehicles, and camera footage.
Amy sat beside me in Denise’s conference room, Frederick asleep in her lap.
When I showed her the photo, she did not cry.
That scared me more.
She studied it carefully.
“That was taken this morning,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“The porch wreath. I changed it after the moving truck.”
I stared at her.
Even under threat, she noticed details.
Daniels arrived in plain clothes. He looked tired but focused.
“We’re tracing the number,” he said. “Could be a burner. Could be someone stupid.”
“Betsy?” I asked.
“Possibly. Teresa from jail through someone else. Another relative. Harold trying intimidation. We don’t guess. We collect.”
Amy looked up.
“What should we do tonight?”
“Stay elsewhere,” Daniels said. “Somewhere not obvious.”
Denise offered us her guest cottage outside the city. It belonged to her late mother and sat behind a gated drive.
At first, I resisted.
Then Amy said, “Please.”
So we went.
The cottage was small, quiet, and surrounded by trees. For the first time in days, no relatives knew where we slept.
After Frederick went down, Amy and I sat on the porch while cicadas screamed in the dark.
“I keep thinking about your mother’s voice,” Amy said.
I looked at her.
“When she said I’d never be safe in this town.”
“You will be.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ll make sure.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t want you to become someone who only fights.”
That landed hard.
Because fighting felt good.
Clean.
Righteous.
It gave me something to do with the guilt.
Amy continued, “I need you angry. I do. But I also need you here. With me. With Frederick. Not lost in revenge.”
I stared into the dark trees.
“I don’t know how to stop seeing that kitchen.”
She took my hand.
“I don’t either.”
A long silence passed.
Then she said, “Maybe we don’t stop seeing it. Maybe we build something stronger around it.”
The next morning, Daniels called.
They had traced the threatening photo.
Not to Betsy.
Not to Teresa.
Not Harold.
To Uncle Ray’s son, Dylan.
A twenty-two-year-old who still lived with his parents and thought loyalty meant committing felonies for older relatives.
Police picked him up before breakfast.
At first, Dylan claimed he was “just checking on the house.”
Then they found the burner phone in his truck.
Then they found cash in an envelope.
Five hundred dollars.
And a note.
Watch the wife. She breaks first.
The note was in Teresa’s handwriting.
Even from jail, my mother was still directing traffic.
When Daniels told me, I stepped outside so Amy would not see my face.
But she followed anyway.
“She wrote it?” Amy asked.
“Yes.”
Amy looked toward the trees.
Then she did something unexpected.
She laughed.
Softly.
Bitterly.
“She really doesn’t know me.”
I turned to her.
“What do you mean?”
“She thinks I break first.”
May you like
Amy looked back at the cottage where our son slept safely.
“She forgot I’ve already survived her.”
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