“Then they’ll find a towel in the dirt and nothing else,” I said, forcing steadiness into my tone. “And we’ll deal with that if it happens. One thing at a time.”
We stood there a moment in the rain, two figures in the dim light spilling from the kitchen window, old and young, dripping and scared and stubborn.
Then we went back inside.
When we stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, the clock read 8:59.
“Go change,” I told Laya quietly. “If they come, I don’t want you shivering from wet clothes.”
“What about you?”
I pointed to my robe on the hook. “I’ll be fine. I’ve lived through worse storms than this.”
Her mouth quirked, just barely, in a grim approximation of a smile. She dashed upstairs, the wet hem of her pants marking faint prints on the steps.
I barely had time to hang up the trowel before the doorbell rang.
This time the sound wasn’t just insistent; it was sharp, official. Laya froze halfway down the stairs, clutching the banister. I took a deep breath and went to the door.
Through the frosted glass, I could make out two shapes. I opened it to find a man and a woman standing on the front porch, rain glistening on their hats. They wore uniforms—dark blue, patches on their shoulders, badges that caught the porch light.
“Good evening, ma’am,” the older man said. His voice was calm but serious. “I’m Sergeant Alan Cooper. This is Officer Ramirez.” The young woman beside him nodded, pen in hand, notepad at the ready. “We received an anonymous report about illegal substances at this address. May we come in?”
My hands were trembling, but I kept my chin up. Years of cleaning houses for people who looked at me as if I were invisible had taught me how to stand upright even when my heart wanted to curl in on itself.
“Of course,” I said. “Please wipe your feet.”
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