The question wasn't accusatory, just curious. Quiet. Earnest.
I took a breath. "Because I worked my whole life to get this cabin," I said slowly. "Because this place is supposed to be peaceful. Because I won't be bullied off land I legally own. And because if I don't stand up now, they'll do this to the next person, and the next, and the next."
Randall nodded. "Good answer."
We shared a small, tired smile. His phone buzzed then. He glanced at it, his eyebrows shot up.
"Well," Randall said, "you're not the only one they're bothering."
"What now?"
He held up the screen. Several messages from neighbors up and down the ridge.
One read: Karen and Joey came by again, asking us to sign their complaint, getting hostile when we refused.
Another said: Your cabin's under investigation. We know that's a lie. You need help.
Another heard yelling outside their place an hour ago. Sounded like a fight.
And another: She's telling people you're trying to get her evicted from the ridge. Just a heads up.
I sat back. They were spiraling, unraveling. This was their last desperate attempt to regain control of the narrative.
"People are finally seeing them for who they are," Randall said quietly. "They're losing their grip. And when people like them lose control, that's when they get sloppy. Sloppy, desperate, dangerous."
A faint noise outside made us both look toward the window. It wasn't thunder. It wasn't a branch. It was footsteps—slow, heavy, crunching on wet gravel.
Randall put a hand up, telling me silently: Don't move.