The drive back to Brad’s house was tense. Ivy’s whispered plea echoed in my mind: what was Brad doing with the money if not for her? Betrayal simmered beneath my skin. That night, sleep eluded me—I resolved to watch, just as Ivy asked.
The next morning, I began following Brad after dropping Ivy at school. His life seemed ordinary at first: work at an auto shop, lunch at a diner, evenings at home. But on the third day, he veered into a seedy part of town, stopping behind a rundown bar.
From the shadows, I watched him exchange cash with desperate-looking people. My gut screamed danger. Confronting him wasn’t an option—I needed evidence. Over the next weeks, I documented every move, every transaction, growing more fearful with each entry.
Ivy’s Saturday visits became my anchor. One day, she whispered, “He gets real mad… especially when people come over.” That was enough. Monday, I handed my folder to the authorities, trembling with hope.
A few days later, Brad was arrested—drug trafficking and endangerment among the charges. Ivy moved in with me, and the house finally felt alive again. I had kept my promise: to protect her, no matter what.