A young officer standing near the walkway glanced at Holt. "Captain, do we have confirmation that the suspect is actually here?"
"Follow your orders," Holt replied.
A crash sounded from inside. Angela recognized the hollow ring of a ceramic lamp she had bought with Marcus at an estate sale, the one that sat beside the couch. She could picture it on the floor without seeing it. She could picture the photograph of their wedding leaning against the lamp base. The helplessness of knowing strangers were in her home while she was held on the sidewalk was different from the dangers she had trained to face. It was intimate in a way that training could not blunt.
When she asked again for the name of the fugitive, Griggs shoved her forward. Angela caught herself with one foot, but he used the movement as a reason to pull her backward. Another officer seized her free arm. The phone slipped from her hand and skidded across the pavement, its screen flashing as it came to rest near a cruiser tire.
"Stop resisting," Griggs shouted.
"She isn't resisting!" Mrs. Carter cried from her porch. "She didn't do anything!"
Angela felt the ground beneath one knee, then the pressure of an officer forcing her toward the asphalt. The scrape across her cheek was brief, but the fear that followed was not. She had trained people to recognize when pressure against a person's back could become dangerous, and she tried to explain that she was having trouble breathing. Griggs finally shifted enough for her to draw a fuller breath. The handcuffs closed around her wrists with a pressure that immediately felt wrong.
From inside the house came more shouting and the sound of drawers slamming. Officers reported an empty basement, no visible suspect, and no sign that anyone had recently forced a window or door. Holt ordered them to keep looking. Angela lifted her head and asked, "Who are you searching for? Give me a name."
"You know who," Holt said.
"I don't. And I think you know that."
For the first time, his expression changed in a way Angela recognized from the previous weeks. He looked toward Mrs. Carter's house. It was quick, scarcely more than a glance, but it gave shape to a suspicion Angela had been trying not to believe. The developer's offers, the traffic stops, the inspections, the promise that staying would become inconvenient: all of it suddenly stood in the same room of her mind.
"This is about the houses on this block," she said, loud enough for the cameras. "Vision Heights wants Mrs. Carter's property, and she won't sell. Is that why you're here?"
The crowd stirred. Mrs. Carter gripped the porch rail, then straightened. "That company offered me three times the assessed value last week," she called. "When I said no, another officer came by asking about violations."