By the time the last lock clicked into place, my hands were shaking.
Chris stepped back from the door, the new deadbolt gleaming under the porch light. His jaw was tight, knuckles pale around the screwdriver. The front hallway smelled faintly of wood shavings and metal, proof of how much we'd reinforced the frame, the hinges, the lock.
Still, it didn't feel like enough.
I adjusted the camera app on my phone again, refreshing the doorbell feed for what had to be the tenth time in the last hour. The image flickered and then sharpened: empty driveway, still sidewalk, soft light pooling beneath the oak tree.
No movement.
No one there.
And yet, my stomach hadn't unclenched since Anne's call.
Chris walked past me into the living room, rubbing a hand over his face. "Back door's reinforced. Windows too. I think that's everything."
"Do you really?" I asked quietly, watching him fidget with the screwdriver in his hand.
