I slammed my fist against the door. “Mark! Open it. Now!”

Silence.

Then Lily’s voice—shaking, terrified. “Grandma?”

Something inside me snapped.

I stepped back and drove my shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. On the third hit, the frame splintered and the door burst open.

Everything froze.

Mark stood near the bed, his face drained of color, clutching Lily’s backpack. Lily was pressed against the wall, trembling. Her cheek was flushed red, her hair disheveled. Papers were scattered across the floor. A black phone glowed faintly beneath the dresser.

But what stunned them most wasn’t the broken door.

It was the gun in my hand.

I had owned it for fifteen years—legal, rarely used. I pointed it toward the floor, not at him. My voice was calm.

“Step away from her.”

Mark raised his hands. “Evelyn, you’re misunderstanding—”

“He found the phone,” Lily cried. “He found everything.”

Noah appeared behind me, silently crying.

“What phone?” I asked.

“The one I used to record him.”

Mark’s eyes flickered—toward the window, toward the stairs. For the first time, he looked afraid.

Then sirens filled the street.

Officer Daniel Pierce entered first, rain dripping from his jacket. Behind him came Officer Hannah Wells. They took in the scene—the broken door, Lily shaking, Mark with raised hands, Noah clinging to me, and the gun still in mine.

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