I pulled out the phone with shaking hands. Prescott sneered. “Oh, calling the cops? Go ahead, honey. Chief Miller golfs with me every Sunday.” I turned the screen toward him just long enough for him to see the name: “DAD — DO NOT IGNORE.” He rolled his eyes. “Daddy gonna come save you? Cute.” I answered on speaker. A calm, gravelly voice filled the driveway. “Sweetheart. I just got the alert from your ring camera. Am I seeing this correctly?” I said, “Yes, Daddy. He’s throwing our things in the street. He called Emma a burden.” A pause. Then: “Leave it with me.” Twelve minutes later, three black SUVs rolled up the cul-de-sac, followed by a county code-enforcement van, two unmarked sedans, and a news crew that had apparently been tipped off. Prescott’s smirk cracked when a tall man in a charcoal suit stepped out of the lead SUV — silver hair, calm eyes, a State Attorney General’s lapel pin catching the porch light. My father. Behind him came a woman with a Department of Housing badge, and behind her, the actual Chief of Police — not Prescott’s golf buddy, but the county chief, who outranked him. Dad didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at the soaked albums in the mud and said, “Those belonged to my late wife.” Prescott stammered, “S-sir, there’s been a misunderstanding, I didn’t — I didn’t know she was your —” Dad tilted his head. “You didn’t know she was a human being. That was the problem.” The Housing officer began reading violations off a clipboard: illegal eviction, retaliatory rent hikes, uninhabitable conditions, HOA fraud spanning six years. Prescott’s handyman quietly set down the last box and walked away. The news camera’s red light blinked on. Neighbors stepped out onto their porches — this time to watch him. Dad crouched down, picked up Emma, and wiped a raindrop off her cheek. Then he turned back to Prescott, who was now the one standing in the rain. “You have twenty minutes,” Dad said softly, “to explain to these officers exactly how you thought today was going to end.”
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