Opened the hood.
Set out detailing spray.
Chrome polish.
Microfiber cloths.
I wore jeans.
The faded UGA cap.
Navy T-shirt with a bleach mark near the collar from a laundry accident in 2020.
No uniform.
No visible gun.
No visible badge.
A small authorized body camera captured my perspective as a witness and streamed to secure storage for evidentiary preservation.
At 12:45, Tate went upstairs.
His bedroom window overlooked the driveway.
He mounted his phone on the small tripod Marguerite had given him years earlier.
“Recording?”
“Yes.”
“Stay upstairs.”
“I know.”
“Even if Hadley starts yelling.”
“I know.”
“Even if Bryson does something stupid.”
“I know.”
“What if I call you?”
“Twice.”
“Good.”
He disappeared upstairs.
I polished chrome.
At 1:42, Hadley’s front door opened.
Same coral blouse.
Same white capris.
Same gold sandals.
For one strange moment, I remembered the pound cake.
The woman walking across her lawn preparing to file a false police report looked almost identical to the woman who had welcomed me to the neighborhood months earlier.
Bryson followed.
Polo.
Tennis shorts.
Folder in one hand.
Hadley stopped near the edge of the cul-de-sac.
She watched me.
I did not watch her back.
At approximately 1:45, dispatch received her call.
Woman reporting stolen vehicle.
1968 Ford Mustang.
Claimed son had purchased it.
Claimed current possessor refused surrender.
Wanted police recovery and tow.
At 1:47, units acknowledged.
Brennan.
Murchison.
I kept polishing.
Long circles.
Center outward.
Exactly how Marguerite had taught me while helping her father polish his 1957 Chevrolet years earlier.
The absurd thing about waiting for a confrontation is how ordinary your hands continue moving.
Cloth.
Chrome.
Spray.
Wipe.
Across the cul-de-sac, Hadley paced once.
Bryson looked at his phone.
At 1:54, a marked Cederville Police Ford Explorer turned into Briarwood Glen.
Slowly.
Professional speed.
Brennan parked about twenty feet from my driveway.
He got out.
Murchison followed.
Brennan surveyed the scene.
Mustang.
Older man.
Open garage.
Woman across the street holding papers.
He walked toward me.
“Sir, Cederville Police Department. We have a report involving a stolen vehicle at this address. Can you step away from the car and identify yourself?”
I set down the cloth.
Stood.
Turned.
Removed my cap.
Brennan’s brain recognized me before his body caught up.
He stopped.
Then came to attention.
Murchison saw his reaction.