For several seconds, no one moved.
Rain poured through the shattered front window.
The brick rested on the hardwood floor beside scattered pieces of glass.
The note remained in my hands.
STOP DIGGING. YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE STAYED DEAD.
Mrs. Pike was the first to speak.
“Call the police.”
I nodded.
But before I reached for my phone, Bram quietly said,
“They’ll already be gone.”
“What?”
“Whoever threw that brick knew exactly when to do it.”
He looked toward the street.
“They wanted us frightened.”
“They didn’t want to hurt us.”
“They wanted us to stop.”
The mechanic walked to the broken window and looked outside.
The street was empty.
Only rain.
Only darkness.
No headlights.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
I dialed 911 anyway.
Two patrol officers arrived twenty minutes later.
They photographed the broken window.
