More phones were raised now. More voices murmured to each other across lawns. Stella was still kneeling in the wet grass, wrists raw, staring at her house like she didn't recognize it anymore. Inside, Garvey finally straightened up from the last closet.
He wiped drywall dust off his hands onto his pants and looked around at the wreckage with something close to satisfaction. No safe. No suspect. No drugs.
Nothing but broken walls, broken furniture, and broken glass in every room. He didn't look bothered by any of it. He keyed his radio as he walked back toward the front door, stepping over the shattered wedding photo without glancing down. "Location secure," he said, voice flat, like he was reporting the weather.
"Scene's clear." Behind him, the first real light of morning was starting to touch the top of the ruined roofline. Francis Waldridge's phone had been buzzing for two minutes straight before he finally looked at it. He was still at his desk at the district attorney's office, going over witness statements for a case that started in three days.
He saw the missed calls stacking up from Stella. Then came a text from his neighbor, then another. He read the words "police," "your house," and "hurry," and was out the door before he finished reading the rest. He drove faster than he should have.
When he turned onto Somerset Court, his headlights swept across a scene that didn't look real. Police cruisers were parked at angles across the street, floodlights were aimed at his own house, and his front door hung broken off its hinges. He barely got the car into park before he was running. "That's my wife!" he shouted, seeing Stella on her knees in the grass, wrists bound behind her.
"That's my—" He didn't get to finish. Two officers hit him from the side and drove him to the ground. His shoulder cracked against the earth. Someone's knee pressed into his back.
His arms were wrenched behind him and cuffed before he could get another word out. Garvey walked over unhurriedly, like he had all the time in the world. "Well, look who wants to be a hero," Garvey said, standing over him. "You know how many guys try to run up on a scene like this?"
"You're lucky you're not eating pavement harder than you are." "This is my house," Francis said, voice tight against the grass. "That's my wife." Garvey crouched down, getting close enough that Francis could smell the coffee on his breath.
"Yeah, sure it is. Funny thing about a house like this. Guys like you don't usually own something this nice unless you're moving something you shouldn't be." He straightened back up, satisfied with himself.
"Get comfortable. This is going to take a while." Across the yard, phones were still raised. A neighbor's voice cut through the morning air, sharp and disbelieving. "That's Francis! That man lives here! What are you doing to him?"
Garvey didn't even glance her way. Francis lay there with his cheek against the wet grass, cuffs biting into his wrists, and felt something shift inside him. Not fear anymore. Something colder.