Trying to rein in my anger at his mere audacity, I took a deep breath before acknowledging Sheriff Dawson's presence, let alone his cutting remark. My eyes met his and never left. This time, he was going to see that his unwanted granddaughter was no pushover. He continually tries to be intimidating, but it only fuels my frustration. I see a weak old man, yet I feel the weight of our strained relationship and my own anger at his attitude towards me. I had come to terms with the fact that we would never be able to be okay with each other, and that thought stings, but there was nothing that could be done about it.
"No, Sheriff. I did nothing wrong," I said, hoping my voice sounded nicer than I felt.
"Seems funny, since you moved in, we are constantly over here for one reason or another. You are making enemies already," he says as he walks closer to us. I feel a surge of frustration and unfairness, like he's twisting the situation to blame me. My stomach tightens with the sense that he's dismissing our real struggles, and I want him to see how wrong he is.
"Are you really blaming me for this? We were almost attacked in our own home. We barely escaped," I yelled, my voice shaking with anger, abandoning any politeness. He may be my elder and my grandfather, but he didn't deserve my respect. My temper flared, and my emotions overwhelmed me; I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or strike something like his face. It was a bad time to be dealing with him because we were still so overwhelmed by fear and adrenaline from earlier that night. My body language must have shown my fury because Zeke quickly grabbed my arm to stop me from confronting Sheriff Dawson. Honestly, if he hadn't held me back, I would have stormed down the stairs. My rage was at its peak, and my old grandad unwittingly fueled it.
"Sheriff," Zeke says in my place as calmly as he can. "We were almost killed tonight by two intruders. If we hadn't escaped, they were going to shoot us both, yet you stand here and mock the victims. Great law enforcement. Instead of provoking us, how about finding the two men who broke in?"
"Son, you'd better watch that tone and remember who you're talking to," Sheriff Dawson warns. Before Zeke can respond, Andy steps in between us, acting as a shield against his father. At first, Dawson is taken aback by this. He must not have expected his son to stand up for us again. As son and father stared at one another, the tension rolled off of them. Dawson would love the connection between Andy and me to be a lie; that way, he could erase me from their lives forever.
"Back away, father," Andy says in a low, menacing voice. "Do you want your deputies to see this go down. Doesn't look good for you." A look of shock appeared on the Sheriff's face, but was quickly replaced by irritation.
"Funny, son, you're threatening me. Did you forget who you're talking to? I'm your father," he said, clearly annoyed by Andy's constant protection of us. The sheriff turns his attention to Sharon, thinking she will reason with Andy for him. "Sharon, are you going to sit back and let this girl come between my son and me. If you're not careful, she'll tear your relationship apart, too. She's no good like her mother. Look at all the trouble she's brought to this town since she's moved in?" He was pleading with my stepmother, hoping for her allegiance, but she completely ignored him and let Andy do the talking. Obviously, she didn't think much of her father-in-law either.
"Oh, I didn't forget. I don't care who you are to me. You will not bully my child or guilt-trip my wife; they are my only family. I wrote you and Mom off years ago," Andy said flatly. Their voices were loud enough to draw others' attention. Soon, I heard footsteps slowly approach on the porch. I looked up and saw the deputies had stopped and were watching our family reunion. It was somewhat amusing to see their different reactions—some appeared shocked, others angry about our argument with the sheriff, and a few smirked, trying to hide their laughter. We might have been the first to stand up to their boss. Still, none of them seemed surprised to learn that the Sheriff was my grandfather. People say gossip spreads quickly in a small town; they were right.
Sharon was the only other person who saw them walk out onto the porch. Andy, Zeke, and Dawson were all too involved in their standoff. I tapped Andy and Zeke on the shoulder, then pointed to the audience that had formed. They shrugged their shoulders; the audience didn't seem to upset or surprise them. The sheriff, on the other hand, didn't look happy to have an audience of his subordinates taking in the scene.
"We'll finish this conversation later, Andrew," the sheriff said to him as if he were still a small child.
"No we won't. This conversation is over, old man," Andy's tone was final. The sheriff started to step towards him, but stopped when he remembered that everyone was watching them. Instead, he turned and took his anger out on them.
"What are you all looking at?" the sheriff barked, His voice echoing over the quiet street as he stormed back to his cruiser, mumbling under his breath. The tension in the air was thick, and the crowd, now dispersing, cast wary glances at each other. I was amazed at how he tried to act superior to everyone else, even his own son. The evening's heavy silence was broken only by the distant voices of the investigation as it progressed, leaving behind a scene charged with unresolved conflict and underlying threats.
The deputies informed us that it would be some time before the crime scene was released, but they assured us we were free to leave if we chose. Our statements were given, they wouldn't let us in the house to get a change of clothes, and we couldn't see a reason to wait around. We needed sleep and a safe space. Andy and Sharon persuaded Zeke and me to accompany them to rent a room at the nearby hotel close to the library in town.
Initially, I found it difficult to leave the property; a wave of anxiety surged within me at the mere thought, as if invisible hands were holding me against my will. That overwhelming pull to the property seemed to get more intense day after day. It felt like this hold it had on me would never disappear; it was frightening in a way. However, after a moment, this thought alone made me realize leaving was my best and only option—more than anything, we needed to clear our heads. Besides, there was truly nothing that could be accomplished at the house tonight, and I gradually accepted the need to go. Over and over again, the words repeated in my head, "It's ok to leave for a night, everything will be fine." Each time I chanted it in my mind, I hoped it would be real.
Instead of driving ourselves, we decided to ride with them. It was the safest option; we were too exhausted. We quickly slipped into the back seat of the truck and melted into the seats. I was so tired that I fell asleep immediately, even before leaving the driveway, lying my head on Zeke's lap as he gently stroked my hair. The night had been draining, scary, and stressful, but his touch brought me comfort. I always felt safe with him near me.
They didn't wake me when we arrived; Zeke carried me into our room, took off my shoes, and laid me under the covers. The only thing I recall is feeling like I was floating. That night, Zeke's warm embrace gave me comfort and a sense of safety. Saying we slept all night isn't accurate—I kept having visions of hiding in the safe room, afraid of being discovered. My mind replayed different scenarios, leaving me to wake up crying and gasping for air. Poor Zeke was awakened each time, too. I offered to sleep on the floor, but he refused. He patted my back and said, "I'm here, baby, you're safe, go back to sleep," then gently pulled me back into his arms.
Andy began knocking on our door around eight in the morning, inviting us to join him for breakfast. Reluctantly, we got up and went to the restaurant across the street. Zeke was nervously bouncing his leg beneath the table, clearly eager to speak. To soothe his nerves, I placed my hand gently on his leg just above his knee. He responded by softly covering my hand with his and looking over at me.
"Rocky, we need to inform Agent Williams about what happened. It could be linked to the incident from years ago and help identify who is responsible for your grandparents' murder," he said urgently. I knew he was right, but I couldn't stop thinking about whom we can genuinely trust. Someone knows the truth about my family's fate—either a witness or the mastermind. My concern is which one we're dealing with; if it's the culprit, they won't let us escape.
"I know. I need to call Uncle Donovan, too," I suggested. "He may be in danger if they know he's alive." We spent the morning making the phone calls and deciding our next steps. Did we want to continue to stay in the house or figure out other accommodations? To me, leaving the house wasn't an option, regardless of what had happened. Zeke disagreed with me; he's worried about my safety. Which I am too, but the pull to that place is too strong. It didn't feel right to be away from it for too long. Once they realized there was no way to convince me to leave the house, we came up with a different plan.
We would take immediate steps to reinforce the doors and change the locks after realizing how easily the intruders had broken in. The deputies examined the scene carefully and found no signs of forced entry, which suggested someone may have clandestinely provided them with a key—an incredibly disturbing realization. It meant that someone had unfettered access to our home at any time, which was a gut-wrenching thought. In retrospect, changing the locks right after moving in would have been the smart move, but the sequence of events was unpredictable. Sharon suggested installing extra exterior cameras to catch any future intruders in the act. As we discussed, an overwhelming wave of fear hit me; we had completely overlooked the crucial paperwork—evidence implicating Dawson and Ted—that could connect them to the disappearance. While I've always suspected a link, I didn't think they were the masterminds—more like pawns manipulated by someone far more powerful. That was a theory I desperately needed to confirm. If I was right, the key question remained: who was pulling the strings behind the scenes? Filled with a mixture of dread and suspicion, I suddenly stood up, my eyes scanning the faces of all three of them across the table.
"We completely forgot the paperwork; it's still concealed in the attic. Do you think the deputies will manage to find it?" My anxiety and stress were overwhelming—perhaps overblown, but I couldn't control it. An unrelenting need to personally seize the information was crushing, sending tremors through my chest and spiraling down my spine. If Dawson got hold of it, he'd obliterate it. "We need to find it now," I stated.