I parked in front of a large colonial. Perfect lines. Dark windows. Except for thin streaks of yellow light leaking from behind heavy curtains.
I shut off the engine and listened. Nothing. No wind. Just that heavy, affluent quiet.
I walked to the porch and didn’t bother with the doorbell. I pounded three hard blows into the oak door—the kind that says I’m not here to ask.
Two minutes passed. Shadows shifted behind the glass. They were stalling. Planning.
Finally, the lock clicked. The door opened a few inches, caught by a security chain.
Linda Wilson stared out—silk blouse, neat hair, already composed. Not startled. Prepared. Annoyed.
“It’s four in the morning,” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”
“Open the door, Linda,” I said evenly. “I’m here for my daughter.”
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