New Locks, Old Threats
“Change the locks,” I told Ryan.
He didn’t ask if I was overreacting. He just nodded, already pulling up a locksmith. By nightfall, our deadbolts were new, key codes reset, and the spare key I’d once hidden for “family emergencies” was useless.
For two days, nothing happened.
On the third, my phone buzzed with a voicemail from Frank—no greeting, just his voice thick with anger.
You think you can embarrass me? You owe us. Open your door when I come.
Ryan looked at me. “He’s not coming,” he said.
But his eyes flicked toward the front window.
That evening, as the streetlights clicked on, furious pounding detonated against our front door.
“LENA!” Frank bellowed outside. “OPEN UP!”
Ryan stepped to the peephole—
—and at that exact moment, red and blue lights washed across our living room walls. Sirens followed, sharp and official.
Frank’s voice lifted with triumph.
“She’s inside, officers,” he said loudly. “That’s her.”
Then the police knocked—once, twice—like the door already belonged to them.
Ryan lifted a hand to keep me back. I could hear my heartbeat more clearly than the pounding now. The knock came again, slower.
“Police department,” a man called. “Ma’am, we need to speak with you.”
Ryan opened the door only as far as the chain allowed. Two officers stood on the porch.
Frank stood behind them, arms crossed, wearing that familiar satisfied look—like he’d finally found the lever that moved me. SAY YES AND LIKE THIS COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO READ 
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