I watched from the front porch as the squad car idled at the curb, its lights flickering red and blue across Ricky’s tear-streaked face. He stood on the lawn, hands cuffed behind him, shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of the world. Every time I called his name, he dropped his gaze, like looking at me might break him completely.
I’d raised him on stories of right and wrong, on the promise that honesty would always guide him through. Seeing him treated like a criminal felt like a betrayal—not just of him, but of everything I believed in.
The officer—a tall man in his late thirties with eyes too tired for his age—stepped forward and opened the back door. “He’ll be booked downtown, ma’am,” he said, voice flat. “You can see him later.” Then the door shut, the engine revved, and they were gone—leaving me standing alone in the fading afternoon light, the house behind me suddenly too quiet.
I settled into the rocker by the window, staring at the empty street, willing the phone to ring, praying for someone to knock. But the hours dragged by, hollow and slow. Dinner came and went untouched. My mind looped through the day’s events—Ricky’s panicked call from the park, the officer’s brusque arrival, the damning evidence found in Ricky’s backpack. I kept telling myself it was a mistake. It had to be.
Just after ten, a soft knock rattled the door. My heart lurched.
Officer Daniels stood on the porch, his jacket unbuttoned, his face drawn. “Ms. Halloway,” he said softly, “may I come in?”
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