I only mowed the lawn for the widow next door, but the sheriff’s knock the next morning made me realize it was never just kindness.

I spent the rest of the night on the couch, all the lights off, a baseball bat propped next to me, the letters spread out on the coffee table so I could read them over and over again, making sure I hadn’t missed anything. The baby kicked nonstop, hard and frantic, like it could feel the fear rolling off me in waves, and I talked to it quiet, over and over: We’re gonna be okay, I promise. I’m not gonna let him hurt us. We just have to be smart.

By 2 a.m. I’d pieced most of it together. In 1986, when Thomas was 17, he’d gotten into a fight with his dad — Margaret’s husband, Henry — over money. Thomas had dropped out of high school, was hanging around with a bad crowd, owed a local drug dealer thousands of dollars he couldn’t pay back. Henry had refused to bail him out, told him he needed to “face the consequences like a man.” So Thomas had done the only thing he could think of: he’d broken into his dad’s hardware store after hours, poured gasoline around the back room, and set it on fire. He’d meant to collect the insurance money, pay off the dealer, and run. But the fire had spread faster than he’d planned, burning the whole block to the ground, nearly killing two firefighters who’d gotten trapped in the basement.

Margaret had found out what he’d done the next morning, when she’d found a half-empty gas can in the trunk of his car. Instead of turning him in, she’d lied to the police, told them the store’s wiring had been faulty for months, that she’d begged Henry to fix it a dozen times. The insurance company had paid out $500,000, no questions asked — small-town justice, the kind where everyone knew the Whitakers were good people, good churchgoers, good neighbors, so no one bothered to dig too deep. Margaret had given every cent to Thomas, made him promise to leave town, start over, never tell anyone what he’d done.

He’d left. He’d gotten married, had Brian, died in that car crash when Brian was two. And Margaret had spent the next 30 years watching Brian from afar, sending anonymous checks to his foster families, paying for his school clothes, his first car, his community college tuition — all the things a grandma does, even when her grandbaby doesn’t know she exists. She’d thought he was a good kid, that the money was helping him build a better life.

She’d been wrong.

Brian had found out about her when he was 25, going through his dad’s old things after his foster mom died. He’d found the letters, the old photo, the bank records showing the anonymous deposits. And instead of feeling grateful, instead of driving out to meet the woman who’d spent her whole life loving him from a distance? He’d seen dollar signs. He’d spent the next five years researching the fire, digging up old police reports, tracking down the insurance paperwork, until he had enough to blackmail her. Give me everything, he’d said, or I’ll tell the world you were an accomplice to arson. I’ll make sure your husband’s name is dragged through the mud. I’ll make sure no one in this town ever says a nice thing about you again.

Margaret had called his bluff. She’d made an appointment with her lawyer, changed her will, left every single thing she owned to me — the house, the land, the $2.4 million she’d invested and saved over 40 years, the mineral rights under both our properties that the oil company had offered her $12 million for six months prior. She’d known Brian would be furious. She’d known he might hurt her. But she’d done it anyway, because she’d rather die knowing her money was going to someone who’d earned it than live one more day being blackmailed by her own blood.

I was crying by the time I finished the last letter, silent tears rolling down my face, dripping onto the paper. I’d only known her for three hours. I’d only mowed her lawn. And she’d trusted me enough to give me everything — her home, her legacy, her life’s work — while her own grandson had only wanted to bleed her dry.

A sharp, stabbing pain ripped through my lower abdomen, and I doubled over, gasping, my hand flying to my stomach. It passed after a minute, leaving me shaky and sweaty, but then it came again, harder this time, 10 minutes apart, then seven, then five.

No. No, no, no. Not now. Not when I was alone, not when there was a murderer outside my door, not when I was one wrong move away from losing everything Margaret had given me.

I fumbled for my phone, scrolling through my contacts till I found the number the sheriff had given me — Beau Whitaker, Sheriff’s Office, Cell: (555) 234-7890. I stared at the name for a second, my brain foggy with pain. Whitaker. Same last name as Margaret. I’d been too scared to notice before.

I hit call before I could think better of it, and he picked up on the second ring, his voice deep and sleepy. “Ellie? You okay?”

“Contractions,” I gasped, another pain hitting so hard I could barely talk. “Five minutes apart. I think — I think the baby’s coming early.”

“Ambulance is on its way,” he said, and I heard him fumbling for his keys, the sound of his front door slamming. “I’m 10 minutes out. Lock your doors, don’t open for anyone except me or the paramedics, you hear me? Brian’s truck was spotted at the edge of town an hour ago. He’s still around.”

I hung up, sliding to the floor, the pain coming faster now, sharper, and I closed my eyes, breathing the way the birthing class teacher had showed me — in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose — and tried not to think about Brian, about the fire, about the fact that I was about to have a baby alone in a dark house with a killer on the loose.

When the ambulance got there 15 minutes later, Beau was right behind them, his sheriff’s lights flashing, his hand resting on his gun as he cleared the house, room by room, before he let the paramedics carry me out on a stretcher. “I’ll stay here till you get back,” he said, squeezing my hand as they loaded me into the back. “No one’s getting in that house. I promise.”

I nodded, too tired to talk, and stared out the back window as we pulled away, watching my small, shabby house get smaller and smaller in the distance. For the first time all day, I didn’t feel scared. I felt angry. Angry at Brian for being the kind of man who’d kill his own grandma for money. Angry at the world for making me fight so hard for every tiny good thing. Angry at myself for ever loving a man who could do the things he’d done.