The note from yesterday whispered in the back of my mind:Stop coaching. This is your only warning.
No. They weren't connected. They couldn't be. That note was a prank—some stupid teenager trying to be edgy. And this was just... bad luck. Bad timing. Random vandalism.
Right?
I pulled out my phone to call the police, then hesitated.
What would I tell them? Someone threw a brick through my window? They'd file a report and do nothing. And if I mentioned the note from yesterday, I'd sound paranoid. Connecting two completely unrelated incidents because I was jumpy.
I looked at the brick again. At the shattered window. At the glass covering my studio floor.
What if it wasn't random?
What if someone really did want me to stop coaching?
What if they were escalating?
My gaze drifted to the bulletin board on my wall—photos of my students at various competitions. Harper's bright smile. Gabriela's determined expression. Addie's face, from back when she still had that spark in her eyes.
What if I was wrong? What if these incidents were connected, and I ignored it, and something happened to one of them?
I pressed my hand against my mouth, fighting down the surge of panic.
I didn't want to overreact. Didn't want to be that woman who saw threats everywhere, who couldn't handle her own problems, who had to run to Daddy every time something went wrong.
But what if I underreacted? What if my pride, my stubborn independence, my refusal to admit I might need help... what if that put my students at risk?
I couldn't live with that. I'd never forgive myself.
Even if there was only a tiny chance these incidents were connected—even if I felt ridiculous and paranoid and overdramatic—I had to be sure. I had to protect those girls.
I retrieved the note from yesterday's trash, smoothed it out beside the brick, and took photos of everything with my phone.
Then I dialed 911.
After I'd given my statement to the police and they'd promised to "look into it"—the same empty assurance they probably gave everyone—I called my father.
"Presley? Everything okay, princess?" His voice was warm, unsuspecting.
"Daddy." The word came out smaller than I wanted. "I need you."
DANIEL DANFORTH MADEthe forty-five-minute drive from his downtown Austin office in thirty-two minutes.
He strode through Crown & Grace's entrance looking every inch the oilman who'd built an empire through sheer force of will. Six feet tall, silver hair, tailored suit, and a face like a gathering storm.
"Show me everything."
I handed him the note from yesterday and gestured to the brick, the shattered window, the glass still scattered across my studio floor. He studied each piece of evidence in silence, the muscle in his jaw jumping.
"When did this happen?"
"The brick came through about five forty-five. But Daddy, I'm not even sure they're connected. The note was probably just a prank, and this could've been an accident—"
"Princess." He set the note down carefully. "A brick doesn't accidentally go through a window with that much force. Someone threw this deliberately."
"But there's no note with it. No message. Maybe it was random vandalism—"
"Two incidents in two days?" He shook his head. "That's not coincidence."
