His gun still existed.
His cuffs still held my wrists.
But the room had turned against him.
Not emotionally.
Factually.
That was better.
Emotion could be denied.
Facts could be logged, timestamped, copied, archived, and played back for people whose job was to act.
The secure voice spoke again.
“Visual confirmed. Exterior team in position.”
Silas’s face flushed red.
“You called them?” he snapped.
I looked at him.
“No,” I said. “You did.”
He did not understand.
Not immediately.
Then he looked at Linda’s fallen phone, my phone on the table, the button at my collar, the open window of witnesses, the headlights outside, and understanding crossed his face in pieces.
He had built the case himself.
Every threat.
Every shove.
Every word.
Every second of his hand on his weapon.
The front porch boards creaked under approaching boots.
A firm voice outside called his name.
Not “Officer Vane.”
