Behind her, Todd called Carolyn. "We rattled her good." 

Carolyn's voice came through crisp. "Good. Do it again tomorrow. I want her gone by the end of the month." 

Grace heard every word. Not through the phone. Through the listening device she'd planted in Todd's truck two weeks ago. That night, she called Raymond. 

"They're escalating. Carolyn's pushing a timeline. I need them to attack me in public, on camera, in front of witnesses. That's the only evidence that closes this." 

Raymond paused. "How much more can you take?" 

Grace looked at her bleeding hand. "Enough." 

The next two weeks were the longest of Grace's life. Week one started with Kyle Brown. Grace was crossing Elm Street on her way to the grocery store. She heard heavy footsteps—fast, deliberate—coming from behind. Kyle didn't say a word. He just lowered his shoulder and slammed into her like she was a tackling dummy. Grace flew off the curb. Her knees hit the asphalt. Her cane snapped in half under Kyle's boot. Cars honked. A woman gasped from across the street, but kept walking. 

Kyle stood over her. "Oops. Didn't see you there." He laughed at his own joke and walked away. 

Grace knelt on the road, holding two pieces of a broken cane, blood running down both shins. She had to request a replacement cane from the FBI, her third in eight months. Raymond shipped it overnight, disguised inside an Amazon box. 

Three days later, Shane Taylor posted a video. He'd been following Grace for a week with his phone. Every stumble, every moment she reached for a wall or misjudged a step. He edited it together with trap music and text overlays: *Blind girl lost again* and *Somebody come get your girl*. He posted it to TikTok. Fifty thousand views in two days. 

Derek Moore commented first: *Next time I'll walk her with a leash.* Todd replied with three crying-laughing emojis. Carolyn shared the video from an anonymous account she thought nobody could trace. But Grace had already flagged every alias Carolyn used online. Another piece of evidence. Another file in the case. 

But evidence doesn't stop bruises. 

Week two was worse. Thursday afternoon, Grace was leaving the grocery store with a bag in one hand and her cane in the other. All five of them were waiting. Todd, Derek, Kyle, Shane, and a fifth guy Grace had cataloged as Jimmy—last name unknown, rotating member, always quiet, always followed orders. 

They surrounded her in the parking lot. Todd grabbed the grocery bag and dumped it on the ground. Eggs cracked, milk splashed across the pavement. Kyle pinned both of Grace's arms behind her back. Derek stepped forward. He flicked her forehead with his index finger. Hard. 

"Can you see me now?" *Flick.* "How about now?" *Flick.* "Nah, you can't see nothing. You can't do nothing." 

Shane recorded the whole thing. Todd stood back, arms crossed, supervising like a foreman watching his crew. 

Grace said nothing. Her arms were locked. Her head jerked with each flick. Inside her chest, something was burning. Not fear. Rage. The kind that starts in your stomach and crawls up your spine. She could break Kyle's grip in one second. Elbow to the solar plexus. She could take Derek's legs out before he blinked. She could have all five of them on the ground gasping in under fifteen seconds. 

But she didn't. Because behind these five idiots stood Carolyn Davis. And behind Carolyn stood six years of fraud, dozens of displaced families, and a corrupt councilman who signed every dirty contract. If Grace broke cover now, all of it vanished. Carolyn would walk. The families would never get justice. 

So, Grace stood there and took it. 

Kyle released her. Todd kicked the spilled milk toward her feet. "Clean it up, blind girl. That's all you're good for." 

They left laughing. The store owner watched through the window, then pulled down the blinds. 

That night, the community whispered, but did nothing. An elderly neighbor, Mrs. Patterson, knocked on Grace's door. She brought a plate of cornbread and a quiet warning. "Baby, just move away. I've seen what they do. They ran off the Henderson family last year. The Carters before that. You can't win against these people." 

Grace took the cornbread, smiled. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll be okay." 

She closed the door, leaned against it, took off the glasses. Her eyes—sharp, clear, seeing everything—stared at the ceiling. She whispered to herself, "Every bruise is evidence. Every video is a count on the indictment. Hold on." 

Meanwhile, Denise was getting suspicious. It started small. One afternoon at the office, a stapler rolled off the desk, and Grace caught it midair. Fast, precise, without hesitation. 

Denise froze. "Girl, how did you do that?" 

Grace recovered quick. "Heard it falling. You develop reflexes when you can't see." 

Denise nodded, but she didn't look convinced. A few days later, they were walking together when a kid on a bicycle came flying around a corner. Grace sidestepped perfectly, smoothly, a full second before the bike reached her. As if she saw it coming. Denise said nothing. But that night, she watched the parking lot video again, slowed it down frame by frame. And in one frame, just one, Grace's eyes behind the glasses seemed to track Todd's hand before it moved. Denise saved the screenshot. She didn't know what it meant yet, but she knew something didn't add up. 

On the other side of town, Carolyn Davis was having dinner with Councilman Brad Anderson at a private restaurant. Anderson was nervous, sweating into his steak. 

"This is getting attention, Carolyn. That video Shane posted. People are asking questions." 

Carolyn cut her meat without looking up. "People always ask questions. Nobody ever does anything. That's how this works, Brad." 

"And if someone does?" 

Carolyn put her fork down, looked him dead in the eyes. "Who's going to do something? The blind Black girl?" She smiled. "She can't even hold on to her own cane." 

Grace wasn't at that dinner, but the listening device inside Carolyn's handbag—planted three weeks earlier during a staged collision on the sidewalk—recorded every word. Another file. Another nail in the coffin. 

The next morning, Todd called a meeting with his crew. Carolyn had just announced a neighborhood block party, a PR event to show community unity. Todd had different plans. He gathered the boys in his garage: Derek, Kyle, Shane, Jimmy, plus a sixth—a new guy, broad-shouldered, who went by the name Briggs. 

"Saturday night," Todd said. "The block party. She'll be there. We finish this in front of everyone. Show the whole neighborhood who runs things around here." 

Derek cracked his knuckles. "All six of us?" 

"All six. Make it loud. Make it public. I want every person on that block to see what happens when you don't leave when you're told."