When I opened it, the hallway light revealed two men and a woman. One man wore a dark windbreaker with a badge clipped to his chest. The other held a clipboard. The woman carried a folder under her arm and had the kind of neutral expression that suggested she’d been trained not to react to chaos.
“Ms. Brooks?” the woman asked.
I nodded. “I’m Natalie Brooks.”
Ethan stiffened behind me. “What is this?”
The man with the badge stepped forward slightly. “Ma’am, I’m Deputy Ortega with the county sheriff’s office. We’re here regarding a civil matter and a complaint filed in your name.”
Patricia stepped forward, her voice sharp with offense. “Sheriff? For what? This is a private home.”
Deputy Ortega didn’t even glance at her. His focus stayed on me, calm and professional. “Ms. Brooks, are you safe? Do you need us to step in right now?”
The question struck me in a way I hadn’t expected. Not because I felt in immediate danger, but because no one in that house had asked me something like that in years. I swallowed.
“I’m safe,” I said. “But yes. Please come in.”
Ethan shoved past Patricia. “No, you can’t just—this is my house!”
The deputy looked at him briefly. “Sir, do you have proof of ownership?”