For My 56th Birthday, My Stepdaughter Gave Me A Pair Of Earbuds. I Was Genuinely Happy—Until I Showed Them At Work. One Coworker Leaned In For A Closer Look, And His Expression Changed. “Don’t Use These,” He Whispered. “You Need To Report This Today.” I Didn’t Make A Scene. I Took Them Off, Filed A Report, And Let The Paper Trail Do Its Job. Three Days Later…

Elaine shook her head. “No. Why?”

“No reason.”

That night, I did something that made my stomach twist.

I took the earbuds out of the drawer and put them on. They fit easily—light, comfortable. That almost made it worse.

I walked through the house talking out loud like I always had, about the furnace, about dinner, about how the neighbor’s dog wouldn’t shut up. Then I sat at the kitchen table and said clear as day, “I should really look into changing my beneficiary.”

I waited. Nothing happened.

Of course not. Whoever was listening wasn’t sitting in my kitchen. The next morning, Megan texted Elaine.

“How’s Ry feeling? He sounded tired last time we talked.”

Elaine frowned at the screen. “That’s odd,” she said.

“I haven’t talked to her in a week.”

My chest tightened slow and deliberate. At the precinct later that afternoon, Harris listened while I told him everything—the text, the timing, the earbuds. He didn’t look surprised.

He just leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Here’s what I need you to understand,” he said. “If you confront her now, she’ll deny it.

Maybe cry, maybe flip it around on you, and then whatever she’s planning, she’ll take underground.”

“So what do I do?” I asked. “You observe,” he said. “You document, and you let people show you who they are.”

I sat there staring at the scuffed linoleum floor.

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