He climbed out of the truck, confusion spreading across his face. He raised both hands slightly, trying to present himself as cooperative.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Is there a problem, officers?”
I unlocked my front door and stepped onto the porch.
I wanted to witness what happened next.
I needed to see the end of the control he believed he had over me.
One of the deputies, a middle-aged man with a calm, no-nonsense expression, approached Michael.
“Sir, we received a report that this road is being intentionally blocked. Is this your truck?”
Michael glanced toward me.
For the first time that morning, I saw fear in his eyes.
“It’s a truck I rented,” he said. “But there’s no problem. My father and I are having a disagreement.”
“What kind of disagreement?”
“A private family matter involving real estate. Nothing that requires police involvement.”
“That’s not the report we received.”
