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The next morning, I was halfway through my first coffee when there was a knock at the door.
Not a light tap. A solid, official knock.
I opened the door to a police officer in uniform.
He looked exhausted.
Eyes red around the edges. Jaw tight.
“Yes,” I said carefully.
“I’m Officer Daniels,” he said, showing his badge. “I need to speak with your son about last night.”
My brain sprinted to the worst possible places.
“Is he in trouble?” I asked.
“No,” Daniels said.
I called up the stairs.
“Jax! Down here for a second!”
He came down in sweats and socks, hair a fluffy pink mess, a bit of toothpaste on his chin.
He saw the officer and froze.
“I didn’t do anything,” he blurted.
Daniels’ mouth twitched.
“I know,” he said. “You did something good.”
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