“Tell them what?” she asked.
Michael blinked.
It was the first time I had ever seen him look afraid of her.
The response team documented the scene.
One photographed the cuffs.
One photographed the service weapon after it had been cleared.
One took the temporary duty order from the table, placed it into a protective sleeve, and noted its position beside the grocery receipt stamped 3:17 p.m.
Tyler surrendered the recording after being told twice not to alter it.
My mother gave her statement at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around the cold coffee mug she had forgotten to drink.
Michael kept saying the same things.
He thought I was lying.
He thought I was unstable.
He thought he was protecting his home.
His home.
Even then.
Even with the cuffs on the floor and my blood on the tile, he still reached for ownership like it could save him.
