The radio on the older officer’s shoulder crackled. A shrill female voice spilled through in fragmented outrage. I didn’t need an introduction to know it was Margaret, Ethan’s mother. Her particular register lived somewhere between offended swan and air-raid siren. Even through police static, I could hear the indignation in it.
“Ma’am,” the officer said into the radio, already tired, “this isn’t a police matter. He married someone else. We can’t make her let him back in.”
The radio screamed again. He reached up and turned the volume down with a look that suggested he had children and therefore a deeper respect for silence than most.
The younger cop shifted awkwardly. “She’s saying you stole his stuff.”
“I haven’t touched his things,” I said. “This house was purchased before the marriage. The deed is in my name. His cards were authorized-user cards, not joint ownership. He can arrange to retrieve his personal property later.”
The older one looked over my shoulder into the foyer, as though checking for overturned furniture or blood or any sign this was the kind of domestic dispute his training actually covered.