At 5:03 a.m., the knocking wasn’t polite. It was the kind of knock that forces your body awake before your brain has time to think.
I stomped over to the door in sweatpants, my hand on the chain. Through the peephole, I saw my neighbor Graham standing on my porch, wearing a wrinkled hoodie, his hair still wet as if he had rushed out of the shower. His eyes were wide and intense, scanning the street behind him.
I cracked the door open just enough to speak.
“Graham? What’s going on?”
He leaned in, his voice low and hurried.
“Don’t go to work today,” he said. “Just trust me.”
My stomach lurched.
“What? Why…?”
“Please,” he cut in, almost begging. “Call in sick. Say anything. But don’t leave the house. Not this morning.”
A cold fear crawled up my spine.
“Is something happening outside? Did something bad happen?”
Graham shook his head quickly.
“I can’t explain,” he whispered. “Just don’t leave.”
I stared at him, trying to read the fear on his face. Graham wasn’t dramatic. We’d only exchanged polite greetings for two years. He was the kind of guy who would roll your trash bin back if it tipped over—not someone who would show up at dawn looking like he’d seen a ghost.
“I work at the courthouse,” I said automatically, clinging to that one solid fact. “I can’t just not—”
Graham’s jaw tightened.
“Especially you,” he murmured.
I lost my breath.
“Especially me?”
He nodded firmly.
“Don’t go to work,” he repeated. “And if anyone calls you and tells you to come in… don’t answer.”
Then he stepped back, as if he had already stayed too long, and walked off my porch without another word.
I stood there for a moment with the chain still on, my heart pounding. My first instinct was to brush it off—to tell myself he’d had a bad dream or mistaken me for someone else.
But the street was too quiet. Too still. And Graham had looked… terrified.
I called my supervisor, Marla, forcing my tone to sound casual.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said. “I’m taking the day off.”
Marla sighed, annoyed but not suspicious.
“Alright,” she said. “We’ve got a lot going on. Feel better.”
I spent the next few hours pretending I’d made a normal decision while my thoughts spiraled. I kept peeking through the blinds. Kept checking my phone. Kept telling myself Graham was just acting strange.
At 9:17 a.m., an unknown number called.
I let it ring.
At 10:02 a.m., another unknown number.
I didn’t answer.
At 11:30, I was pacing the kitchen, still hadn’t had coffee, my nerves shot. I was about to text Graham for an explanation when my phone vibrated with a local news alert.
BREAKING NEWS: ACTIVE INVESTIGATION NEAR THE DOWNTOWN COURTHOUSE…
My stomach dropped.
Then the next line appeared, and the color drained from my face:
“Authorities confirm a direct threat against a courthouse employee.”
I stared at the alert until the words blurred.
Direct threat.
Courthouse employee.
That was me.
My hands shaking, I turned on the TV. The morning anchor’s tone had gone serious. Behind her was a live feed: police tape around the courthouse entrance, officers in tactical gear, a bomb squad truck parked nearby.
“Authorities have not released details,” the anchor said, “but sources indicate a device may have been placed in the employee parking area.”
My legs gave out and I collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table.
A device. In the employee parking lot.
Exactly where I parked every day—at 7:22 a.m.
My phone vibrated again. Marla.
I hesitated, then answered. “Marla?”
Her voice was tense, stripped of workplace irritation.
“Where are you?” she asked. “Are you at home?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “What’s happening?”
A pause. Then:
“Thank God.”
My throat tightened.
“Marla… was it for me?”
She exhaled shakily.
“They can’t say it officially,” she said. “But they were asking for you by name. The police are here. They told us to shelter in place. We… we found something under your usual spot.”
My stomach twisted.
“Under my spot?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And… there was a note.”
My hands went numb.
“What did it say?”
She hesitated, as if the words tasted wrong.
“Your name was on it. And it said: ‘YOU CANNOT TESTIFY.’”
My skin went cold.
Testify.
The word slammed into me. I wasn’t just a courthouse employee. I was the Witness Coordinator. For the past month, I’d been assigned to a high-profile case involving a local contractor with ties to organized theft and intimidation. I handled witness schedules, transportation, safe-house access. I saw names. Addresses. Security protocols.
Recently, I had signed off on a strange “correction” to a visitor log—something that suggested someone was trying to erase a face from surveillance footage.
I’d quietly reported it.
If someone wanted to stop me from “testifying,” it meant they thought I knew something I wasn’t supposed to know.
And suddenly, Graham’s warning made terrifying sense.
I hung up and immediately called Graham. Straight to voicemail.
I texted: What do you know?
No reply.
At 11:58 a.m., I noticed movement outside my window. A car—a dark sedan with tinted windows—slowly turned onto my street and stopped in front of my house, idling. My heart slammed.
I backed away from the blinds, breathing shallowly.
Then came another sound: a knock at the door.
This wasn’t Graham’s frantic knocking.
It was controlled. Even.
Three knocks.
I didn’t move.
A man’s voice came through the door, calm, almost friendly.
“Ma’am, this is Detective Rivas. We need to talk.”
I froze.
Because my mind immediately asked the question no one wants to ask:
How do I know he’s really a detective?
My phone vibrated—finally, a text from Graham.
Don’t open the door. They followed me.
My blood turned to ice.
The voice outside spoke again, gentler now.
“I know you’re home,” he said. “Please… open the door. This is for your safety.”
And from somewhere nearby—just outside the window—I heard another voice, barely a whisper:
“Wrong house.”
I didn’t open the door.
I didn’t answer.
I gripped my phone, silently dialed 911, and moved into the hallway where I could see the front door without being seen. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone.
The operator answered.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s a man at my door claiming to be a detective,” I whispered. “My neighbor warned me not to go to work. There’s a threat downtown. I think someone is outside my house right now.”
“Ma’am, what’s your address?”
I gave it to her, my throat raw.
“Please,” I whispered, “tell me if there’s an officer assigned to my house named Rivas.”
“Stay on the line,” she said. I heard typing.
Outside, the man called again, patient, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Ma’am,” he said, “we just want to ask you a few questions. We can do this the easy way.”
The easy way.
My stomach clenched.
Then my phone vibrated again—another message from Marla:
POLICE SAY THEY DID NOT SEND A UNIT TO YOUR HOUSE. DO NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE.
My vision blurred.
I whispered to the operator, “My coworker says police aren’t sending anyone.”
The operator’s tone sharpened.
“Ma’am, do not open the door. Units are on the way.”
The voice outside shifted—no longer as calm.
“I heard you move,” he said. “Don’t make this harder.”
I retreated deeper into the house, clutching my phone like a lifeline. The sedan was still parked outside, engine running.
Then I heard it—a soft scraping at the side door.
Someone testing the lock.
I ran to my bedroom, locked the door, and opened the closet. My brain flipped into survival mode: stay quiet, hide, buy time.
Outside, footsteps on gravel. A soft metallic sound. Someone trying the back door handle.
Then another voice—not the “Detective’s”—closer now:
“She’s inside. I saw her light earlier.”
I screamed.
The operator said, “Ma’am, are you alone?”
“Yes,” I whispered, eyes burning with fear.
“Okay,” she said. “Stay where you are. Officers are close.”
Outside, the man spoke again, calmer than before.
“Ma’am, last chance,” he said. “Open the door and this ends peacefully.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth to silence my breathing.
Then the front door handle rattled.
Once.
Twice.
Then a sharp creak—something rigid being forced into the frame.
They were trying to break in.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it would give me away.
Then—suddenly—sirens wailed in the distance. Fast. Close. Loud enough to cut the man off mid-sentence.
Tires screeched.
Someone shouted, “Police! Show me your hands!”
Chaos erupted—footsteps, curses, a car door slamming, then the heavy sound of a body hitting the ground.
I stayed frozen in the closet, shaking, until a real voice called out from inside the house:
“Ma’am? Officer Nguyen. You’re safe now. Come out slowly.”
I stepped out, my legs barely feeling like my own.
In my living room stood two uniformed officers with guns drawn. Through the window, I saw a man in handcuffs facedown on my lawn.
Officer Nguyen looked at me gently.
“Are you the courthouse employee?” he asked.
I nodded, throat tight.
He sighed.
“Your neighbor saved your life,” he said. “He called it in first. Said he overheard a conversation last night—about ‘getting you on your way to work.’”
I swallowed hard.
“Where is he?”
Nguyen pointed across the street.
Graham stood on his porch, hands raised slightly, speaking to another officer. Pale, but standing.
When our eyes met, he mouthed two words:
“I’m sorry.”
And in that moment, I realized the shocking truth wasn’t just that someone had targeted me—
It was that Graham knew why…
and he lived right next door.