Chapter 4
The rumble grew into a deep, vibrating hum that made the plastic cups on the kitchen counter dance and rattle against each other. My father froze, his hand still clamped around my wrist. Thomas turned around, looking out the small kitchen window toward the front yard.
“What the hell is that?” Thomas muttered.
Outside, the cheerful old country music playing from the garage speaker was suddenly cut off, replaced by a wall of heavy, mechanical thunder. It sounded like a fleet of heavy-duty diesel engines idling all at once, shaking the very air in the neighborhood.
Then came the sound that made every face in the house go pale: the sharp, unmistakable, blaring wail of multiple police sirens, accompanied by the heavy, thundering chop of helicopter blades overhead.
My father dropped my wrist as if my skin had suddenly become burning hot. He turned toward the back door, stepping out onto the patio deck just as the rest of the family—my mother, Brenda, Mason, and my other relatives—scrambled away from the food tables, looking around in sudden, panicked confusion.
I pulled Ava close to my chest, keeping her hand under a gentle stream of cool water while I craned my neck to look out the window.
Two black-and-white cruiser cars of the state police swerved into our driveway, gravel flying in every direction. Right behind them, a massive, unmarked heavy-duty transport vehicle blocked the exit, its red and blue emergency lights flashing a blinding strobe against the sunny afternoon sky.
And hovering just above our backyard, kicking up a hurricane of dust, grass clippings, and paper plates from the patio, was a large black helicopter bearing the insignia of the State Child Protection and Special Investigations Unit.
My mother let out a shrill gasp, dropping a bowl of potato salad onto the grass. “Grant... Grant, what is happening? Who did you piss off?”
My father didn't answer. He stood at the edge of the deck, his face draining of all its color, his mouth slightly open as three state troopers in tactical gear stepped out of the lead cruiser, their hands resting near their holstered weapons. But it wasn't the troopers who commanded the attention of everyone in the yard.
It was the tall, sharp-featured woman stepping out of the second vehicle. She wore a tailored charcoal suit, her silver-streaked hair pulled back into a strict bun, and her expression was like chipped granite. Behind her walked two uniformed officers and a civilian man in a sharp grey suit—a man I recognized instantly from the local news.
It was District Attorney Marcus Vance.
The entire neighborhood had stopped what they were doing. Faces peered over fences, down from second-story windows, and out from parked cars. The idyllic, quiet Sunday family barbecue had just been transformed into a full-scale tactical crime scene.
My father puffed out his chest, trying to regain his old authority as he marched down the deck steps toward the lead trooper.
“What is the meaning of this?” my father boomed, trying to force authority into his aging voice. “This is private property! You have no right rolling onto my lawn like a bunch of thugs. I want your badge numbers right now!”
The woman in the charcoal suit didn't even look at him as she walked past him toward the patio. She stopped at the edge of the deck and scanned the terrified, frozen faces of my family.
“Grant Holloway?” she asked, her voice clear, cold, and carrying effortlessly across the silent yard.
May you like
“Yes, I am Grant Holloway, and—”
“Mr. Holloway, you are under arrest for felony child abuse, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and endangerment of a minor,” the woman said, her voice ringing out like a judge’s gavel.
