I began to understand why an investigation could take weeks even when wrongdoing felt obvious.
Every witness saw a fragment.
Each fragment needed a place in a larger picture before someone could rely on it.
A delivery driver’s memory of a gray pickup was useful but not final.
A photograph of a repaired tailgate could have an innocent explanation.
Alice’s account required comparison with messages, vehicle records, and physical evidence.
And none of those facts alone proved who had broken my garage window.
I met with a victim advocate, Tara Mills, after Brooks suggested it.
Tara did not ask me to recount the entire story immediately.
She began with practical questions about sleep, transportation, safety, and my ability to work.
I told her I was functioning.
She asked whether functioning meant feeling safe.
I had no answer.
We discussed temporary security measures, a possible protective order if the evidence supported one, and how to keep a factual log without spending every waking hour documenting fear.
“Your life cannot become an evidence locker,” Tara said.
“You have a daughter and a job and your own health to protect.”
I left with a sheet of resources and a strange sense of permission to be tired.
At home Ian had repaired the cabinet door even though I had not asked him to.
He showed me the new hinge and joked that the cabinet was now stronger than the rest of the garage.
I smiled, then admitted I had considered selling the house.
Ian sat down on an overturned paint bucket.
“Do you want to leave,” he asked, “or do you want the fear to stop?”
I watched a rain cloud pass over the garden.
“I want Maya to feel safe,” I said.
“Those aren’t exactly the same thing,” he replied.
I knew he was right.
Moving might eventually be sensible, but I wanted the choice to be ours rather than Gwen’s reward for frightening us.
I saw Evan Mercer for the first time in a week at a gas station beside the highway.
He stood near the air pump holding a paper cup of coffee, wearing a dark jacket and a baseball cap pulled low.
I had stopped only to refuel and buy windshield fluid.
When he recognized my car, he turned toward the station building.
I did not follow him.
I paid at the pump and called Detective Brooks from the driver’s seat.
She told me to leave and let investigators handle any contact.
