“She’s inside, officers,” he said loudly. “That’s her. She’s the one.”
Then the police knocked—once, twice—with a weight that made it feel like the door already belonged to them. Ryan lifted a hand to keep me back. I could hear my heartbeat more clearly than the pounding now. The knock came again, slower and more authoritative.
“Police department,” a man called out. “Ma’am, we need to speak with you.”
Ryan opened the door only as far as the security chain allowed. Two officers stood on the porch, looking professional and weary. Frank stood right behind them, his arms crossed over his chest, wearing that satisfied look he always got when he thought he’d finally found the lever that would move me.
PART 3 — “Stolen Property” and a Performance on the Porch
“What’s going on?” Ryan asked, his voice steady.
The older officer—Officer Hernandez—kept his tone neutral and observant. “We received a call regarding a possible domestic situation and an allegation of stolen property.”
My stomach dropped into my shoes. “Stolen property?” I repeated from behind Ryan before I could stop myself.
Frank leaned forward, hungry for the spotlight. “My daughter took items from my home,” he announced to the street. “Family valuables. Jewelry. Important documents. And she’s unstable—she sent me a dollar like a psychopath. She’s harassing me.”
I felt Ryan’s shoulder shift as he absorbed the blatant insult. He didn’t step aside; he stood his ground.
Officer Hernandez glanced past the chain, his eyes landing on me. “Ma’am, can you come to the doorway?”
