Behind me, I hear Noah addressing the police. One cop, wearing gloves, picks up the gun.
“Let’s go downstairs.”
With an arm around her shoulder, I guide her down the stairs to the main floor, leaving her father’s girlfriend and the cops behind us. The front door’s wide open, and we exit through it. That’s when I notice Stella’s barefoot, and we stop on the brick stoop.
Three cop cars are lined up in front, and one is parked in my drive.
A couple of curious neighbors gather further down the block. Faces peer from windows across the street.
Gabriel rounds the corner.
“Is it safe?” My question sounds absurd to my ears. The police are here, but I need to hear it from Gabriel.
“All clear,” he confirms. “Looks like she did this on her own.” He glances into the house. “Is she stable?”
I hesitate, my gaze on Stella, but she’s on her phone—texting.
“She’s not well,” I answer Gabe, meaning Jessica, then touch Stella to get her attention. “Who are you texting?”
“Dad.” She says it in her teen voice, the one that implies with intonation that I’m antiquated.
And I suppose it makes sense she would text him. She just saw his girlfriend in handcuffs upstairs and there are cops surrounding our house.
“What did Jessica do? Did she try to hurt you?”
“No—” comes out automatically, and it’s a version of the truth I want, but her question triggers questions in me.
“What do you think she wanted?” I ask Gabe. She hates me, she made that clear, but I saw Noah check the gun—there were no bullets. She didn’t come to kill me.
Her eyes, her words—I don’t think she’s of sound mind. It’s like she snapped—but what did she want? Why break into my office?
“She took some USB drives from my desk. Empty. Why?”
Commotion on the stairs prevents Gabriel from answering.
A police officer leads Jessica down the stairs, handcuffed. I presume he read her her rights and is taking her in for breaking and entering, but based on the solemn faces, I’m not alone in recognizing she’s guilty of far more than breaking into my home.
Black streaks her face—telltale signs of mascara gone astray—in this case, the truest mask removed. Her lips are swollen from crying, her nose red, and the whites of her eyes wild and sharp in a way that warns she’s unhinged.
A car screeches to a stop at the curb.
Richard.
He barely puts the BMW in park before he’s out, scanning the scene—flashing lights, uniformed officers, the neighbors gathering like moths, and then…me, on the stoop with Stella tucked beneath my arm.
“Stella?” he calls, rushing toward us.
She breaks from me, meeting him halfway down the walkway. “Dad,” she breathes into his chest. “Jessica…” Her voice wobbles. “She had a gun.”
He stiffens. A full-body jolt. He looks to me, desperate for either confirmation or denial.
“The police have her.” It’s all I manage.
Richard’s gaze jerks past us. Jessica’s led by two officers, hands cuffed behind her back, hair disheveled, fury and humiliation twisting her face into something unrecognizable.
The moment she sees Richard, her expression fractures.
Splinters.