Marcus froze.
“No.”
He lifted it gently.
Water had seeped beneath the backing.
The lower corner began curling.
James’s face remained intact.
For now.
Marcus found a clean kitchen towel inside another box.
He placed the photograph flat.
Blotted around the edges.
His hands began shaking.
Outside, Susan continued talking.
Marcus could hear her voice faintly through the open door.
Words about rules.
Standards.
Respect.
He barely listened.
James smiled up from the damp photograph.
Marcus remembered the afternoon.
Heat.
Grilled onions from next door.
His father teasing him about standing too stiffly.
Then the sentence.
Don’t let that badge make you forget what it’s for.
Marcus closed his eyes.
Loss never disappeared.
It only learned to wait quietly.
Sometimes it returned through a photograph in an empty kitchen.
He removed the rest carefully.
An anniversary picture with Linda.
James beside the Ford.
A Christmas photograph.
All salvageable.
Some damp.
Marcus laid them across dry towels.
Outside, Daniel shouted:
“You damaged his property!”
Susan answered something.
Helen finally called:
“Susan, stop.”
Marcus heard that.
Too late.
But he heard it.
He looked through the window toward the Ford.
The black leather case waited on the seat.
He could take it now.
End everything.
He could come outside with the badge.
He could become somebody in Susan’s eyes.
Marcus turned away.
Not yet.
He touched the edge of his father’s photograph.
The picture had survived.
A faint stain marked one corner.
Marcus breathed slowly until his hands stopped shaking.
Then he walked outside.
Susan stood near the driveway.
Daniel closer now.
Helen partway down her walk.
Thomas near his curb.
Marcus stopped on the porch.
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
Susan turned.
“Do not touch me or my property again.”
His tone was so controlled that Susan’s expression shifted.
She had wanted anger.
Needed anger.
Anger could justify her certainty.
Marcus refused to give it to her.
Susan lifted her phone.
Daniel knew immediately.
“Don’t do this.”
She called 911.
And now three police cruisers were arriving.
Sergeant Michael Collins stepped from the lead vehicle.
Thirty-nine.
Broad-shouldered.
Clean-shaven.
His right hand remained near his holster.
Not gripping.
Ready.
Marcus noticed instantly.
He expected it.
Collins had been dispatched to a possibly armed person.
Behind him, Officer Rachel Morgan exited the second cruiser.
Thirty-four, eleven years on the job.
She scanned the entire scene before focusing on anyone.
Truck.
Wet pavement.
House.
Hose.