Barely. But he was alive. The emergency room smelled like disinfectant and fear. Everything looked clean, too clean, as if the white walls and shiny floors were trying to erase what had just happened.
But the metallic scent of blood clung stubbornly to Allison's sweater and the sharp tang of shattered glass lingered in her nostrils. She sat stiffly in one of the cold plastic chairs, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, rocking slightly. Her eyes didn't blink much. Her lips moved, barely whispering fragments of old prayers, the kind handed down through generations, not for peace, but for strength.
Nick paced the hallway in slow, tight circles. He hadn't spoken in a while. In his hand he held a jagged chunk of brick, the same one that had torn through their window and struck their son. It was still stained near the edge.
He didn't know why he held onto it. Maybe he needed to. Maybe he wasn't ready to let it go. Detective Jared Wells stood nearby, leaning against the reception desk with the tired posture of a man who'd seen too much.
He looked to be in his early 40s, with creases under his eyes and a badge clipped casually to his belt. His notebook was open, but his expression was unreadable. He cleared his throat. "You said the men were from the HOA?
" he asked, pen hovering above the paper. Allison's head snapped up. "No," she said sharply. "They were not officers. They were wearing fake tactical gear. No name tags, no identification. They didn't speak like professionals. They spoke like people who came to send a message." Her voice trembled at the end. Wells nodded slightly and scribbled a few lines. "Unfortunately," he said, "HOA groups aren't official law enforcement. They're private organizations.
Some have their own enforcement arms, sure, but they don't have the same oversight. A few even contract third-party security. It's messy." Nick stopped pacing.
"They threw a brick," he said quietly, then louder, "They threw a brick at my child. They didn't ask questions. They didn't show paperwork. They attacked." His hand gripped the brick tighter. Wells sighed. "Mistaken identity happens. Wrong address, overreaction.
It's not always malicious intent." Nick stepped closer. "You call this a mistake?" His voice cracked as he pointed at the red-stained brick.
"This isn't a wrong address. This is a message, and it nearly ended my son's life." The detective looked down, avoiding eye contact. "If your son pulls through, you can pursue a civil case.
Damages, liability, maybe negligence. But a criminal investigation? That's harder to build without direct evidence." He closed his notebook with a quiet snap.
Allison didn't answer. She stared at the floor, still rocking. Her lips moved, but no words came now. The television in the waiting room played some cheerful segment about a local festival.
Nothing about Oakridge Drive. Nothing about what happened to Logan. No updates, no alerts. Silence.
Late that night, the HOA's official website posted a single line of text. "We regret the misunderstanding on Oakridge Drive. An internal investigation is underway." That was it.
No mention of Allison, no apology, no responsibility. Just sterile distance. Nick didn't sleep that night. At 4:12 a.m., he sat in the kitchen, laptop open, the screen lighting his face in the dark.
He'd worked in electrical systems long enough to understand digital infrastructure. The HOA website wasn't secure. It took less than an hour. He bypassed their basic protections and found their internal communications.
Dozens of emails, dozens of familiar names. But one name kept showing up over and over, Kelly Mason, HOA president. In message after message, she referenced their house, "unapproved construction in the rear, unresponsive homeowners, no cooperation from the city. " And then, in a single email dated three days before the attack, the line that made Nick go still.