Eventually, the house settles. August snores. Amelia shifts once, twice, then goes quiet. Outside, thunder finally rolls closer, and rain starts tapping the roof.
I get up because sleep is a liar.
I check the front lock.
Back lock.
Windows.
The cracked door.
I don’t go in.
I just stand long enough to hear breathing. Kid breathing. Woman breathing. Safe breathing.
Then I step onto the porch.
Rain comes down in a steady sheet, silver in the porch light. Widowmaker sits in the drive, wet and black and mean. The road beyond is empty. Prospects are still posted where Legend put them. One lifts a hand from the trees. I lift mine back.
Then I see it.
A white paper tucked under Widowmaker’s seat strap.
My body goes still.
I cross the porch slow, boots quiet on wet wood, then step into the rain. The paper is folded once, already damp at the edges.
It could have been tucked there before we got home. Could have been slipped in while I had Amelia in the kitchen and my head full of her mouth. Could have come through some blind spot in the trees I’m going to find and close before morning.
Doesn’t matter.
Somebody got close enough to touch my bike.
Close enough to touch the house.
Close enough to make a point while Amelia and August slept under my roof.
I pull it free and open it under the porch light.
A church bulletin.
Pearly Gates Community.
Sunday service.
A smiling photo of Reverend Crowley printed near the bottom like the bastard is selling salvation by the pound.
Across the inside, written in black marker, are seven words.
Families belong to God, not outlaws.
The rain hits my shoulders.
Soaks through my shirt.
Runs down my face.
I stare at the words until the ink starts to bleed.