Chapter 3 - The Blue and the Red-Faced
The lead police cruiser crunched to a halt against the asphalt right in front of Mr. Greer’s truck. The driver's side door pushed open, and Officer Marcus Vance stepped out.
I knew Marcus. We had gone to middle school together. Back then, he had a mouthful of metal braces and a habit of dropping his lunch tray in the cafeteria. Now, he wore a sharp police uniform, a tactical vest, and an expression of grim, official duty as he rested his hand near the butt of his service pistol.
He didn't recognize me at first through the tinted windshield of the old Ford. He approached cautiously, signaling for the other two officers to flank the perimeter of my parents' house while he motioned for Mr. Greer to roll down his window.
Mr. Greer rolled his window down about three inches, the rusted crank squeaking in the tense morning air.
“Morning, Chief,” Mr. Greer said evenly. “Something we can help you with?”
Officer Vance peered past the postal worker, his eyes locking onto me in the passenger seat. His professional scowl faltered, replaced by a flicker of absolute bewilderment.
“Greer? What are you—is that... Emily?” Vance stammered, stepping back a half-step and resting his hand on his holster again as if unsure whether I was a ghost or a tactical threat.
“It’s Specialist Emily Bennett, Officer Vance,” I said clearly, pushing my door open and stepping out onto the pavement.
The morning sun caught the polished brass buttons of my uniform jacket, the ribbons on my chest, and the gold unit crests on my lapels. The contrast between my pristine military attire and the sleepy, manicured suburban street was jarring enough to make several neighbors gasping audibly from their front lawns.
Marcus Vance stared at me, his mouth slightly open. “You’re... you’re in the Army?”
“For the last four years,” I replied, my voice carrying easily across the quiet street. “Could you tell my mother to unlock her front door? I’d like to pick up my mail.”
Before Marcus could answer, the front door of my parents' house cracked open about two inches. A sliver of pale, manicured hand pushed the storm door outward, and my mother’s voice rang out, trembling with high-pitched, theatrical terror.
“Marcus! Thank God you’re here! Arrest her! She’s an escaped federal convict! She broke out of a correctional facility and she’s wearing a stolen military costume to blend in! Don't let her touch you, she’s violent!”
The street went dead silent.
Even the chirping of the morning sparrows seemed to halt.
Marcus Vance looked from my mother’s voice echoing through the open crack of the door to my uniform, my ribbons, my military ID card which I had already pulled from my pocket and held loosely between two fingers.
“Diane,” Marcus called out, pitching his voice to carry toward the doorway. “That’s... that’s Emily. In an Army uniform.”
“She’s lying!” my mother shrieked from behind the reinforced steel of her locked front door. “She forged those documents! Everyone knows she’s been serving a sentence for federal narcotics distribution! Look at her eyes, Marcus, she’s unhinged! Shoot her if she moves!”
A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd of neighbors. Mrs. Gable, who lived two houses down and had supplied half the neighborhood with gossip about my supposed "reform school" years, clutched her pearls so hard I thought the string would snap.
I didn't yell. I didn't storm the porch.
I simply stood there beside Mr. Greer’s truck, the morning breeze rustling the brim of my service cap, and let the sheer, glaring absurdity of my mother's hysteria wash over the entire block.
Marcus Vance looked profoundly uncomfortable. He was a local cop used to dealing with domestic disputes and speeding tickets on Main Street, not navigating a delusional matriarch who had accidentally trapped herself in a four-year-long web of fabricated felonies.
“Mrs. Bennett,” Marcus said, speaking into the crack of the door with agonizing politeness. “Ma’am, you need to open the front door. We need to verify identification.”
“I am not opening a damn thing until you cuff her and put her in the back of a squad car!” my mother shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. “She ruined our family name! She’s a criminal! A convict! A—!”
Click.
A heavy, metallic thud echoed from the driveway behind the house.
Everyone turned their heads.
Rolling slowly down the paved driveway, navigating past my father’s empty Lexus, came a sleek, white television production van with towering broadcasting masts on its roof.
May you like
The side door of the van slid open with a heavy mechanical hiss.
And out stepped Sarah Jenkins, an investigative reporter for the regional news affiliate, holding a live microphone with a bright red Channel 4 logo stamped across the cube.
