“It must have fallen off the counter.”

“I must have swept it into my bag by accident when I was helping tidy up.”

“You don’t tidy up, Ma,” I said, the anger finally breaking through my shock.

“You haven’t touched a broom in this house.”

“And that bottle was in the medicine cabinet.”

“The cabinet you said was empty.”

The officer looked at my mother, his hand resting near his holster.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step away from the door,” he said.

“And I’m going to need you to hand over that bag.”

My mother’s eyes narrowed.

The polite, grandmotherly mask she wore for the neighbors was slipping away.

“This is my personal property,” she said, her voice dropping.

“I have rights.”

“You have no right to search my belongings without a warrant.”

“Actually, ma’am, under the circumstances, I can inspect the bag for safety,” the officer said.

“Now, please set it on the counter.”

My mother hesitated, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the leather strap.

She looked at me, her eyes drilling into mine.