Ryan shot his father a look that clearly said shut up.
But the damage was done. Linda’s anger turned inward toward her son, because that’s what pride does when it’s cornered.
“You told us this house was yours,” she hissed. “You said you were providing.”
Ryan’s face twisted. “I was trying to take care of you!”
Heather snapped back, “By stealing from your wife?”
He spun toward her. “You wanted to live here!”
Heather flinched, then wiped her tears away, suddenly colder. “I wanted somewhere to stay. I didn’t say destroy your marriage.”
That was when Ryan realized no one was going to stand in front of him anymore.
Officer Ramirez gestured toward the driveway. “Let’s go.”
Ryan took a step, then paused, trying one last tactic. “Fine. But I’m coming back with my lawyer.”
“I hope you do,” I said calmly. “Mine already knows your name.”
They walked away—Linda muttering angrily, Frank silent, Heather dragging her suitcases down my front steps like someone being sentenced.
Ryan lingered beside his BMW. He looked up at the house—my house—with a mixture of hatred and disbelief, like it had betrayed him.
Before getting into the car, he turned and said quietly enough that only the cameras and I could catch it: