“Chief Harris,” the man in the suit said, “place the firearm on the floor. Now.”
Michael hesitated.
For one long second, the kitchen balanced on the edge of his ego.
Then he bent slowly and set the pistol down.
One of the uniformed men stepped forward and moved it away with his foot.
Another crossed to me and knelt beside the chair.
His eyes went to the cuff, then to my wrist, then to the blood at my mouth.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly, “we’re going to get these off you.”
My mother started crying then.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
She slid down the cabinet until she was sitting on the floor, her yellow apron bunched in her fists, and cried like someone whose body had finally run out of places to hide fear.
Tyler stood frozen with his phone hanging from his hand.
The man in the suit turned to him.
