Sunny bared his teeth.
The woman pulled out a small card and held it up between two fingers like an offering.
“I’ll leave,” she said, “because I’m not here to start something today.”
Today.
The word landed like a promise.
She slid the card through the bars of the gate and let it fall onto the gravel inside, right at my feet.
Then she lowered her sunglasses, turned, and walked back to her car.
No rush. No fear. No urgency.
As if she knew, with absolute certainty, that she could come back anytime she wanted.
The car door shut with a soft thud. The engine started. The tires rolled away down the driveway.
Only when the black car disappeared behind the trees did I realize I’d been holding my breath.
My momma’s arms wrapped around me from behind, tight. “Joy, honey …”
“I’m okay,” I lied automatically.
My father bent, picked up the card, and handed it to me without looking at it.
My fingers shook as I took it.
The card was plain. White. No logo.
Just a name.
Victoria.
And a number.
No last name.
No explanation.
Just certainty.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Because now she had introduced herself.
And she had said Micah’s name on my family’s land like a warning.
My siblings started talking all at once—questions, anger, disbelief—but their voices faded to background noise as my mind narrowed to one single, pounding thought.
I needed to tell Micah.
I needed to tell him right now.
And the fact that I hadn’t—because I was trying to protect him, or protect my family, or protect the fragile illusion of control—suddenly felt like the most dangerous choice I could have made.
I lifted my phone.
