Chapter 5 - THE ARRIVAL OF THE BLUE LIGHTS
The sirens started as a faint wail in the distance.
Diane stood by the window,
clutching the silk curtains as if they could protect her.
Mark was pacing the kitchen,
muttering to himself,
a man unraveling in real-time.
My father stood by the door,
checking his watch.
"Five minutes early,"
he noted.
"The local sheriff always was a stickler for punctuality."
The blue and red lights began to flash against the walls,
turning the luxury kitchen into a crime scene.
Two patrol cars pulled into the driveway,
followed by an unmarked black SUV.
Mark stopped pacing and looked at the door with pure terror.
"They're really here,"
he whispered.
"I told you they would be,"
my father said.
The doorbell rang,
a sharp,
final sound that ended the life we had lived for three years.
My father opened the door.
Sheriff Miller stepped inside,
his hat in his hand,
his eyes scanning the room.
"Robert,"
the Sheriff said,
nodding to my father.
"Is everything in order?"
"The evidence is on the counter,
Sheriff,"
my father replied.
"The confession was witnessed by fourteen people."
"The financial fraud is documented in the blue folder."
Sheriff Miller looked at Mark.
"Mark Turner,
you are under arrest for domestic assault and grand larceny."
He looked at Diane,
who was now weeping silently by the sink.
"Diane Turner,
you are being detained for questioning regarding conspiracy and fraud."
Mark didn't fight when the handcuffs clicked into place.
He looked like a man who had already died.
Diane,
however,
started to shriek as they led her toward the door.
"You're making a mistake!"
she yelled.
"My son is a good man!
This is his house!"
The Sheriff didn't listen.
He guided her out into the bright light of the afternoon,
her gold bracelets flashing one last time before they disappeared into the back of the car.
I stood by my father,
my suitcase at my feet.
I watched as the house I had hated became empty.
The neighbors were standing on their lawns now,
watching the "perfect" Turners being taken away in the back of police cars.
The balloons,
the golden number 32,
drifted out the open front door and into the sky.
They looked like they were escaping,
too.
"Are you okay,
Emily?"
the Sheriff asked,
walking back toward us.
"I'm fine,
Sheriff,"
I said,
and for the first time,
it wasn't a lie.
"I'll need you to come down to the station tomorrow to sign the formal statement,"
he said.
"I'll be there,"
I promised.
My father picked up my suitcase.
"Let's go home,
Emily."
"Your mother has the guest room ready."
"And she made your favorite lemon cake."
I looked back at the kitchen one last time.
The vanilla cake was still sitting on the counter,
a symbol of a birthday that had been a disaster and a blessing all at once.
I walked out the door and didn't look back.
The air was sweet with the smell of cut grass and freedom.
I got into my father's car,
the same one he had driven me to school in years ago.
As we pulled away from the curb,
I felt the weight of the last three years falling off my shoulders.
I was thirty-two years old.
I was bruised.
I was starting over.
And I was finally,
May you like
beautifully,
safe.
