Then, the door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.

Eleanor sank into one of the dining chairs, her face buried in her hands, sobbing quietly.

Arthur stood by the window, his back to us, his shoulders slumped.

“I am sorry, Monica,” he said without turning around.

“I should have seen what he was doing.”

“We all should have,” I said.

Annika walked over to me, her phone still in her hand.

“The police are at the end of the driveway,” she said.

I looked out the window, past Arthur’s reflection in the glass.

Down the long, snow-covered driveway, blue and red lights began to flash against the dark pine trees.

The flashing lights cast long, rhythmic shadows of blue and red across the dining room ceiling.

Arthur did not move from the window.

“He won’t get past the gate,” Annika said, her voice flat and professional.

“The officers have the warrant for the financial records, and the local precinct has the assault report.”

Eleanor let out a sharp, ragged breath, her fingers clutching a linen napkin.

“My boy,” she whispered.