A week later, just as I finished dinner, someone began pounding on my front door.

Not knocking—banging.

My heart jumped. No one ever came by anymore.

When I opened the door, two men stood rigidly on my porch. Black suits. Polished shoes. Serious expressions.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Mr. Harris,” one of them said evenly, “are you aware of what you did last Thursday? That woman and her baby—”

Before I could answer, the other man cut in sharply:

“YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS.”

My stomach dropped.

“Getting away with what?” I asked, my voice steady but my hands trembling.

They asked to come inside. I let them in.