had miraculously concluded with the exact
same bureaucratic dismissal: 'Insufficient
evidence to substantiate the claims.' And so,
Prescott remained on the streets, his badge a
shield for his deeply ingrained prejudices.
They spotted the suspect precisely where
the dispatch had indicated—one block away
from Grace Chapel. Adrian Bennett was
walking on the sidewalk, his hands resting
naturally at his sides, his posture impeccably
straight. He was a man marching toward the
heaviest burden of his life: saying farewell to
the only brother he had ever known.
Prescott gunned the engine and swerved
the cruiser sharply toward the curb, cutting off
Adrian’s path. The vehicle bumped violently
onto the concrete, its emergency lights
flashing a blinding red and blue in the bright
sunlight. Before the car had completely settled,
Prescott shoved his door open and stepped
out, his hand instinctively dropping to rest on
the heavy leather of his utility belt. Holt exited
from the passenger side, lingering slightly
behind the open door, his fingers nervously
tracing the edge of his radio.
"Stop right there!" Prescott barked, his
voice echoing loudly against the manicured
hedges of Magnolia Ridge. "Where exactly do
you think you’re going?"
Adrian halted his advance immediately.
He did not flinch, nor did he display any
outward sign of intimidation. He looked at the
officer with eyes that had stared down hostile
foreign dignitaries and four-star insurgent
generals. "Good afternoon, Officer," Adrian
replied, his voice calm, deep, and resonant. "I
am heading to Grace Chapel. My brother’s
funeral service is scheduled to begin in ten
minutes."
Prescott let out a harsh, mocking bark of
laughter. He looked Adrian up and down,
taking in the scuffed leather of his old dress
shoes and the modest cut of the unbranded
suit. "A funeral? Well, that’s a new one. You
people are getting more creative every week
with your excuses."
"Excuse me?" Adrian said, his brow
furrowing slightly. "My family is waiting for
me inside the church. I am already running
late."
"Shut your mouth," Prescott snapped,
stepping into Adrian’s personal space. The
smell of peppermint and stale tobacco rolled
off the officer’s breath. "Grace Chapel is fifty
yards away. So why are you wandering
through a private residential neighborhood?"
"The parking lot at the chapel was full,"
Adrian explained, his tone remaining
deliberately even, though a cold steel began to
form in his eyes. "I parked three blocks back
on a public street and walked. Now, if you will
excuse me—"
"I didn't say you could move," Prescott
interrupted, jutting his chin out aggressively.
"Let me see some ID. Right now."
Adrian sighed softly, slowly reaching
into the back pocket of his trousers. He
withdrew his wallet and handed over his
Virginia driver’s license. Prescott snatched the
plastic card, holding it up to the sunlight as if
expecting the ink to run.
"Virginia," Prescott muttered, his lip
curling into a sneer. "Long way from home,
aren't we? A long way from anywhere that
would reasonably explain why you're strolling
past half-million-dollar homes on a Tuesday
afternoon."
"As I stated," Adrian said, his voice
dropping an octave, "I flew in this morning to
bury my brother. Please return my license."
"We got a call about a suspicious
individual matching your exact description
casing this neighborhood," Prescott lied
smoothly, sliding Adrian’s license into his own
breast pocket. "You understand I have an
obligation to investigate."
"I am perfectly aware of your
obligations, Officer. I am not causing any
trouble. I am merely trying to attend a
funeral."
"You don’t get to decide what trouble
looks like out here," Prescott growled, closing
the distance between them until they were
chest to chest. "I do."
❦
CHAPTER 5
THE ARREST
The heavy, oppressive heat of the
afternoon seemed to amplify the tension
radiating from the sidewalk. Adrian stood