I called Rachel Monroe next.
Captain Monroe. My friend. My mentor. A JAG officer who’d taught me the difference between fear and strategy.
She picked up on the first ring. “Olivia.”
“They’re at my gate,” I said, voice tight. “Dad, Evan, Linda. Realtor. Locksmith. They’re trying to get in.”
“Breathe,” she said calmly. “Record everything. Do not open anything. Sheriff Hensley will handle first contact. I’m heading your way.”
I stayed behind the curtain, watching through the camera feed as Dad gestured grandly toward the property like he was selling it.
“That’s the house right there,” he said, voice faint but clear enough through the mic. “She’s not living here. She bought it to spite us.”
Evan paced like he was waiting for a reward.
Linda stood rigid, clutching her purse like it contained authority.
The locksmith worked at the keypad, tools clicking.
My chest burned with rage so clean it felt like ice.
Then headlights bounced down the frost-covered road.
Walt’s county SUV pulled up. He stepped out, calm, authoritative.
“Morning,” he called.
Dad straightened quickly. “Sheriff. Glad you’re here. We’re just trying to help my daughter. She’s confused.”
Walt folded his arms. “Mr. Carter, this is private property. Unless you’re the deed owner, you’re trespassing.”
Dad scoffed. “It’s family property. Misunderstanding.”
“The only misunderstanding,” Walt said evenly, “is the idea that you can bring a locksmith to force entry.”
The locksmith packed up fast.
The realtor cleared his throat. “Mr. Carter, perhaps we should—”
Dad whirled on him. “Don’t you start.”
Walt stepped closer, voice now firm. “Everyone step away from the gate.”
Evan sneered. “Or what? You’ll arrest us for standing here?”
“If you attempt entry again or damage this gate,” Walt said, “I will arrest you.”
Dad’s face flushed. “My daughter is unstable,” he snapped. “She needs intervention.”
