Chapter 13 - THE ADDRESS ON THE SCREEN
We reported the post to the platform and preserved screenshots before it disappeared.
Daniel contacted the officer already familiar with our case and explained the privacy and safety concerns.
No one told us we had to wait for something worse before taking precautions.
We also asked friends not to share screenshots publicly, because doing so would spread the address further.
I spent the afternoon with Olivia in the back room, away from the windows.
I hated that the most ordinary act of sitting near sunlight suddenly felt like a calculated risk.
Our neighbors quietly helped.
Mrs. Alvarez watched the street without turning it into a spectacle.
The couple across the road offered to collect packages.
Rebecca brought dinner and an extra phone charger.
All that practical kindness made Jason's claim that I had abandoned family seem grotesque.
At six, an unfamiliar man knocked and asked whether Jason still lived with us.
Daniel answered through the doorbell speaker and said no.
The man left.
An hour later, someone drove past shouting an insult.
The camera captured the vehicle, but the sound faded before we could identify the words.
We gave both incidents to the police for documentation.
Mr. Collins recommended exploring a protective order if the evidence and applicable law supported it, while being realistic about what such an order could accomplish.
I agreed.
I did not want revenge that felt good for one afternoon.
I wanted a durable boundary.
The next morning our pediatrician's office called to say someone had requested Olivia's appointment details while claiming to be her grandmother.
The staff had not released the information.
I thanked them, then sat with my head in my hands.
There seemed to be no part of my daughter's life Mom considered beyond her reach.
We added a verification note to our records and confirmed who was authorized to receive information.
Afterward Daniel walked in carrying Olivia, who had fallen asleep while he sang an off-key song about a little blue train.
"She likes my singing," he said defensively.
"She has terrible taste," I told him.
For a few seconds our home felt normal.
Then the doorbell rang.
A courier delivered a padded envelope addressed to me.
Inside was Grandpa's stolen blue journal.
Its leather cover had a fresh tear near the binding.
Several pages had been removed.
The remaining pages contained notes about Jason's debts, Grandpa's estate plans, and warnings about my mother's interference.
Tucked inside the back cover was a new handwritten note.
"I took the pages because they belong to me. Drop the case and I'll give them back."
There was no signature.
But I recognized my mother's handwriting, even before I reached the final line.
May you like
"Your father knows what happened on the night Grandpa died."
