When he turned back, his expression had changed.
“Mallory,” he said quietly. “It’s the police.”
Red and blue lights washed across the living-room wall.
They slid over the discharge folder.
They crossed the coffee cup.
They flashed over the framed photo of Mallory and Ethan on the mantel and the small American flag outside in the porch planter.
Mallory stood anyway.
She moved to the doorway with one hand on the wall.
Ethan opened the door.
Two officers stood on the porch.
The older one held a printed complaint.
The younger one had a notepad already out.
“Are you Mallory Hayes?” the older officer asked.
“Yes,” Mallory said.
Her voice sounded weaker than she wanted.
Ethan shifted half a step in front of her.
Not enough to block the door.
Enough to make it clear she was not alone.
The officer explained that her father had filed a complaint claiming concern over possible financial exploitation connected to her mother’s medical emergency.
