My lungs forget how to work.
In. Out.
In. Out.
I know a little self-defense. My dad insisted. He taught me how to break a wrist grip. How to stomp someone’s foot. How to drive my palm into a nose and run.
But self-defense requires you to be close enough to hit someone.
And I am not going upstairs to meet whoever is tearing through my life.
Mrs. Daisy whispers, “I’m calling the police.”
My stomach flips. “Wait.”
She stares at me, eyebrow raised like she does not love that answer.
“I…” My thoughts scatter. If this is connected to the flash drive, if this is something bigger… police means questions. Reports. Explanations I do not have. It means dragging my father’s box into the light when I can barely look at it without shaking.
But if I don’t call the police, what am I doing? Should I call uncle Dave? He’s deployed. He can’t help from afar.
My hand tightens around my phone.
A memory snaps into place. Dad pressing a business card into my palm years ago, looking at me like this part mattered more than anything else.
If you ever feel unsafe, you call. No debating.
He made me keep it in my wallet like a rule. I didn’t get it then. I get it now.
“Give me one minute,” I whisper.
Mrs. Daisy’s mouth tightens. “One minute, sweetheart. Then I’m calling.”
I nod, throat dry.
I pull the card out with shaking fingers and stare at the number.
Then I hit call.
It rings once.
Twice.
On the third ring, a man answers. “Lone Star Security.”
The voice is steady, professional. Like whoever it belongs to is already paying attention.
“Hi,” I whisper. “I’m calling the number on a card my dad gave me years ago.” My fingers tighten around my phone. “He told me it was for emergencies only. His name is… was Marcus Quinn.”
Silence.
My mouth goes dry.
“Your name,” he says.
The words hit like a command. It should irritate me. Instead, it steadies me.
“Sierra,” I say. “Sierra Hayes Quinn.”
