The raid on Cater's house happened faster than Tom expected.
Sirens lit up the quiet Hillridge street, and officers stormed the porch. Tom watched from across the road, chest tight, fingers trembling. This was it. Finally, Cater would pay for Amy.
Minutes later, Cater was dragged out in handcuffs, still wearing that smug, careless grin. He didn't fight. He didn't run. He didn't even look scared.
He looked confident.
Tom's stomach twisted.
At the station, Tom sat in the waiting area, knee bouncing nonstop, listening to every muffled voice behind closed doors. Hours passed. Finally, Officer Sisko pushed open the door and walked toward him with a tired expression.
Tom stood immediately.
"Well?! Did you find it? The video—did you find it on his phone?"
Francis exhaled slowly. "Tom… sit down."
"No," Tom snapped. "Tell me."
The officer rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We searched the entire device. Chats, cache, deleted files, backups, drives. Everything."
"And?" Tom's voice cracked.
"We didn't find any video."
Tom's heart dropped. "What? That's impossible. I saw it. It was there!"
Francis held up a hand. "I'm not saying you're lying. But whatever video you're talking about… it's gone."
Tom shook his head, furious. "So you're just going to let him walk? After what he did to Amy?"
"Tom," Francis said firmly, "we found text messages on his phone. Yes. Suspicious ones. But none of them directly tie him to the attack. Without hard evidence, we can't hold him."
Tom stared at him in horror. "So he's free? After all of this?"
Francis nodded reluctantly. "Cater has been released."
Tom felt heat spread up his neck, a wave of rage crashing through him so violently he had to grip the wall just to breathe.
"He did it," Tom whispered. "I know he did it."
"I'm not dismissing you," Francis replied. "But the law doesn't work on certainty. It works on evidence. And right now? We have nothing solid."
Tom's fists tightened until his knuckles whitened.
"Calm down," Francis urged. "Go home. Rest. Let us handle it. I promise—we're reopening Amy's case and investigating further. But you need to stop taking things into your own hands."
Tom looked away, jaw clenched, tears burning behind his eyes.
He didn't trust them.
Not anymore.
He left the police station without another word, stepping into the cold night. His head throbbed. His vision flickered. Every passing car's engine sounded like a scream. Every phone ping on the street vibrated through his skull.
Cater was free.
Amy was dead.
And the system still wasn't listening.
Tom walked home, shaking, the anger sitting in his chest like a bomb waiting to explode.
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
THE LITTLE PIGGIES
Night settled over the Carter mansion like a heavy blanket—silent, polished, perfect. The kind of perfection only money could buy.
Inside, the dining room glowed with soft chandelier light as the entire Carter family sat around their marble table.
Carter—Cater Carter, oldest son, golden boy, the one everyone in Hillridge pretended was perfect—sat across from his little brother, a 12-year-old who worshipped him blindly.
His father, Mayor Carter, cut his steak with surgical calm.
His mother, a powerful senator, scrolled on her tablet as if the world revolved under her thumb.
"Son," Mayor Carter said without looking up, "how was school?"
Cater smirked. "Same old. Nothing I can't handle."
His mother lifted her eyes. "You look stressed. Are you… keeping out of trouble?"
Cater chuckled. "Mom, please. I get away with everything."
That made his father glance up sharply.
But the moment passed. Dinner continued—small talk, soft laughter, the clinking of expensive silverware.
When the plates were cleared and Cater stood to leave, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He barely glanced at the caller ID before answering.
"Hello?"
A strange, distorted voice whispered:
"Once upon a time…
there were four little piggies.
And one of them…
was named Cater."
Cater froze.
The voice repeated, slower this time:
"Four little piggies…
one named Cater…
and the other three still hiding."
His heartbeat kicked into his throat.
"The hell?" he muttered.
He ended the call immediately.
His mother looked over. "Who was that?"
"Wrong number," Cater lied, forcing a grin.
But the lights flickered overhead—just once, but enough to make them all look up.
Before Cater could take a step, the phone rang again.
He answered with pure irritation, "Who the hell is this!?"
The voice replied:
"I know what you did that night."
Cater swallowed hard.
"Don't play with me," he snapped. "I don't know who you are."
"Where are the other piggies, Cater?
Tell me… before things get worse."
"I don't know what you're talking about. And if you know what's good for you—leave me the hell alone."
There was a pause.
Then the voice said, softly, almost cheerfully:
"…How about I refresh your memory?"
A SPLIT SECOND LATER—
CRAAAAAASH!!!
Something massive SMASHED through the kitchen window.
Glass exploded across the room as everyone screamed.
A grotesque, blood-soaked GIANT PIG'S HEAD rolled across the polished tiles, leaving streaks of red behind it.
Cater's mother shrieked, stumbling backward.
His father grabbed his gun instantly as the mansion alarms began blaring.
Security stormed outside, shouting, searching the dark.
Cater just stared.
Frozen.
Sweating.
Silent.
The voice came through the phone again, calm… precise… merciless:
"That was just a warning shot, Cater."
"Tell me what you know… or I'll haunt you."
"I'll taunt you."
"And when I'm done…"
"I'll completely destroy you."
The line went dead.
Cater stood motionless, trembling, the phone still pressed to his ear.
His mother sobbed.
His father barked orders.
Security scattered.
But Cater didn't move.
Because for the first time…
he finally knew what fear felt like.