Fear.
The Seminoles don’t make appearances like this without purpose. They don’t come quietly, and they don’t leave without making sure their message has been understood.
“They’re here to intimidate him,” I say, though it feels like stating the obvious. “He owes them money. A lot of it.”
Bennett’s arm settles around my shoulders, steady and grounding, but I can feel the tension in him too. “They don’t take kindly to being crossed,” he says. “Whatever he owes, he’s about to be reminded of it.”
We watch as Butch crosses Phillip’s lawn without hesitation,his boots cutting straight through the pristine grass as if it means nothing. The rest of the men remain where they are, engines idling, forming a wall of sound and presence behind him.
Around us, the neighborhood begins to stir.
Curtains shift. Doors crack open. A few people step cautiously onto their porches, drawn by the spectacle despite themselves. No one speaks. No one intervenes. They just watch, as if witnessing something they don’t fully understand but instinctively know not to interrupt.
Butch reaches the front door and pounds on it, the sound echoing sharply through the stillness.
Once.
Twice.
Harder the second time.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then the door opens.
Phillip steps out.
Even from here, I can see it clearly now. The fear. It clings to him, visible in the stiffness of his posture, in the way his shoulders seem to fold inward despite his attempt to stand tall. He closes the door behind him like it might somehow protect whatever is left inside.
Butch says something.
I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. The posture says enough. He stands too close, too still, forcing Phillip to hold his ground in a way that feels like a test he’s already failing.
Phillip nods once.
Then again.
Whatever is being said, he understands it.
“They’ve got a reputation,” Bennett murmurs beside me. “They call it justice, but it’s not the kind anyone wants directed at them.”
I nod slowly, my eyes fixed on the scene unfolding across thestreet. “He’s been living on borrowed time,” I say. “Ever since Whitney died.”
The words settle heavily between us.
I watch Phillip’s hands as he speaks, the way they move just a little too quickly, the way he can’t quite keep still. He looks smaller like this. Not the composed, controlled man who moved through this neighborhood like he owned it, but something more fragile. Exposed.
For a moment, I think of Whitney.
Of the last time she stood on that same property, sunlight catching in her hair, laughter easy and unguarded, completely unaware of how close she was to the end of everything.
The contrast is almost unbearable.
The conversation across the lawn sharpens, gestures growing more animated. Butch’s movements become broader, more emphatic, while Phillip’s seem to shrink in response, his body language tightening, retreating without actually stepping away.
Then, just as quickly as it escalates, it ends.
Butch turns.
One sharp motion of his hand, and the message is complete.
