immediate relocation rather than walk away.
So when Mom called two days later and hissed,
“You’ll regret choosing a kitchen over your blood,”
I did not argue.
I simply saved the voicemail.
At 2:17 on Thursday morning, my security company called.
“Ms. Bennett, there’s a forced entry at the production facility.”
I was already sitting up.
“Police?”
“Dispatched.”
Then my phone filled with motion alerts.
I opened the camera feed and felt something inside me go completely still.
My father was using a crowbar on the dry-storage cabinets.
My
