Megan read over my shoulder and whispered, “Oh my God. He knows.”
Sgt. Miller took my phone, photographed the messages, and his face was grim. “If he shows up, do not engage. You call us. You do not open the door.”
For the first time, it hit me with full force: this wasn’t a marriage falling apart. This wasn’t a messy divorce. This was a man making plans, writing a script, and trying to force reality to follow it.
And as the sky darkened outside Megan’s windows, turning the suburban street into a landscape of shadows, my thoughts kept circling one terrifying question:
If my car wasn’t available to crash… what was Logan going to do instead?
Night fell fast, and the house felt too small for the amount of fear inside it.
We turned off the main lights, leaving only the hallway lamps on, creating a bunker-like atmosphere. Mom sat on the couch, whispering prayers like they were a phone call to someone who could intervene. Megan paced the hallway, checking the front peephole every thirty seconds.
I stayed near the front window, peering through the blinds, watching the street.
At 8:46 p.m., the officer outside got a call on his radio. I saw him straighten up in his seat and turn his head toward the corner.
A dark sedan rolled slowly past Megan’s house. Too slowly.
My heart surged into my throat. “That’s him,” I whispered, though I didn’t even know if it was true. It wasn’t his SUV. It was a rental, maybe? Or a friend’s?
The sedan continued down the block… then circled back.
