Page 65 of Darkwater Lane

“We want to go to the movies,” Connor says.

I blink, convinced there’s no way I heard correctly. “The movies?” I glance again at Sam. He seems as surprised as I am.

Connor nods. “Like a normal family.”

As much as I appreciate the sentiment, we can’t just ignore what happened. He was right the first time; we need to discuss last night and walk through what worked and what didn’t. “Normal families don’t have their front doors broken in by the police,” I point out. “We’re not normal. We can’t pretend we are.”

“Yes, we can,” Lanny says, her voice firm.

“You promised we wouldn’t let fear dictate our lives,” Connor adds.

“That was before a man was murdered in our living room, and an entire SWAT team was called out to our house.”

“If not now, then when, Mom?” I notice how straight her back is and that she’s squared her shoulders as if ready for a fight. I realize, then, how important this is to them.

I want to protest. I want to double down and explain the precariousness of our situation over and over until they understand. Then it hits me, they do understand. Both of them were there last night. They were terrified, just as much as I was. They’re traumatized, just like I am.

But they refuse to let that define them.

They want to claim a piece of normalcy despite everyone trying to take it from them.

Suddenly, I’m so fiercely proud of these two that my heart hurts. Tears burn the back of my throat. “Okay,” I tell them. “We’re going to the movies. And after that, Kathy’s Kakes. Then afterthat, we’re picking up takeout to bring home and eating it in front of the TV.”

Lanny laughs. “That sounds pretty indulgent for a normal family.”

I smile at her. “Since when do we do anything in half measures?”

The next morning, I sleep later than I have in weeks. Probably because I spent most of the night waking up in a panic, thinking I heard SWAT outside, ready to break down the door. Usually, I’m up well before dawn, so waking up to the dull light of the sun seeping around the curtains in our bedroom is weird.

Sam lies next to me, still asleep, his body warm and comforting. I press myself against his back and close my eyes. For that moment, I allow myself to forget my doubts and fears about him. I forget about Sicko Patrol and the podcast. I forget about Melvin’s empty grave and the man who was murdered in our living room.

Instead, I focus on the rhythm of Sam’s breathing, noting that my own matches his subconsciously. I think about yesterday afternoon, sitting at the movies with my family and the sound of their laughter in the darkness. I remember going to Kathy’s Kakes, where Lanny and Connor playfully argued over which flavor slices they should get before ultimately deciding to get two different ones and split them.

I think about what it had been like to pile into our living roomtogether, binge-watching a ridiculous reality TV show and debating what we’d have done differently if we were contestants.

If I’d had my way, we’d have spent yesterday at the shooting range and talking through additional strategies to protect against home invasions. We’d have practiced our defensive moves and breaking out of various physical holds. I’d have set my alarm to wake everyone up at 2:00 a.m. with a surprise drill.

I’d have missed out on the sound of Lanny snorting when she laughed too hard. The feel of Connor tucked against me on the couch. The delight in seeing my kids happy and relaxed and okay.

Those are the moments I’ve been fighting for. I can’t let myself lose sight of that.

Eventually, though, the obligations of my day drag me from bed. I shower and dress quickly, slamming back a mug of burning coffee before heading out to meet Madison.

It’s only when I reach my SUV that I realize all four of my tires are flat. It’s obvious from the gaping gashes in the sidewalls that it was deliberate. Boiling with rage, I pull up our security cameras and scroll through the night before.

Sure enough, a truck rolls up our driveway just after 3:00 a.m. with its lights turned off. A figure jumps out, leaving the engine running, and saunters up to our vehicles. He takes something out of his pocket and kneels. One by one, he punctures all eight of our tires.

Then he stands and looks directly at the security camera. He does nothing to obscure his identity, making it clear as day who he is: Jesse Belldene. He pulls a sheet of paper from his back pocket and holds it up. There’s one word scrawled across it in dark ink:LEAVE!

He then tips what looks like a wickedly sharp hunting knife to his forehead in a mock salute before returning to his truck and backing down the driveway.

I stomp my foot and let out a roar of frustration. “Thatmotherfucker,” I shout. “How are we supposed to leave if you slash our fucking tires!”

The front door flies open, and Sam appears. He’s shirtless and shoeless but clutching the .38 in both hands, muzzle pointed toward the ground. His eyes find me instantly. “Gwen?”

“It’s fine,” I growl through clenched teeth. “I’m just shouting at the universe. Jesse Belldene slashed our tires last night.”

Sam lets out a sigh and steps out of his shooting stance. “Seriously? You sure it was him?”

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