Officer Wright is handsome, large, his presence like a lighthouse beam in human form—sweeping, scanning for trouble with tactful expertise. He doesn’t waste words or gestures, making me wonder how many times he’s walked into a scene like this—if he’s as careful as he looks. His partner, Officer Smith, couldn’t be more different. He’s softer around the edges, paler, fidgety. His pen bounces off his notepad as he scribbles thoughts or clues of the scene—though I wouldn’t be surprised if his notes consisted of simplicities like, “open boxes” and “break-in?” But there’s something earnest about him—like a pupil trying hard to measure up.
“So just to confirm,” Officer Wright says, voice flat but strong. “You left for about twenty to thirty minutes. Came back and”—he gestures at the room—“this was how you found it?”
“Correct,” Amelia says, her tone clipped. She’s standing on business for the both of us.
“And you were at the dock the whole time? No unusual sounds? No sightings of anyone on your property?” Smith asks.
“Nothing,” I tell them, unsure what other details to give. I adjust on the couch, sitting up straight. “Wedidkeep the balcony door unlocked when we went down there, though. But we didn’t see or hear anyone. I actually remember the opposite. It was quiet down at the dock.”
“We didn’t see any signs of forced entry,” Officer Smith begins. “All the windows are locked. I’d guess they entered through that unlocked patio door.”
We’ve got Sherlock here!
“Who was it you were meeting for the boat sale?” Wright asks.
“Says his name is Frank Martin,” I say, fumbling for his social media profile, the pixelated image of him and his supposed family displayed on my phone screen.
Smith scribbles the name on his notepad, and I nearly chuckle at the thought of him searching such a basic identity.
“We’ll flag that in the report,” Smith says. “We can run it against local complaints and see if anything pops up.” He doesn’t make promises, as if that would give me more confidence in them finding the person responsible. They have practically nothing to go off of.
“That’s it?” Rory cuts in, disappointed. His eyes narrow at the officers, dissatisfied with their offerings.
“We’ll canvas the area—see if anyone saw a person or a vehicle,” Wright offers. “We’ll do what we can, but if nothing’s been stolen and there’s no sign of forced entry… our options are limited.” Wright looks between Amelia and me, his police-officer accessories shifting against a nylon belt. “Keep your doors locked—even in the daytime. And give us a call if you remember anything else.”
Rory’s jaw tightens. “You’re just going to leave two women here, knowing someone walked through their house? You don’t think that’s dangerous?” His tone is stern, bothered by the lack of action. At this, I crack a small, private smile.
Officer Wright regards him, unflinching, his stance like a steel wall. “Their safety does matter, very much,” he says evenly. “But nothing here suggests violence. No theft, no harm.”
“But someone was here,” I snap. “They didn’t even try to hide the fact.”
“Which is precisely why I believe this was someone looking to score quick valuables,” Wright replies. “A drifter, or someone struggling with addiction. They poke around, and they move on. This is a nice neighborhood. They likely saw an opportunity and took it.”
“What are we supposed to do? Stay here?” I ask, feeling dirty and violated from this sudden invasion of privacy. Amelia puts her hand on mine, to calm me or shut me up. “Last night I heard the balcony door open. The same one you think an intruder came in from. So, what if someone’s been out there watching us?”
“If they were, it looks like they did what they set out to do,” Smith offers.
Wright exchanges a look with him, likely wanting to head the discussion himself.
“We will canvas the block, talk to your neighbors. See if anyone has security cameras facing the street,” Wright states, shifting his focus back to Rory. “Including your house… Mr. Holloway, is it?”
“Yes, Rory Holloway,” he says. “But we don’t have cameras. And my folks aren’t home at the moment.” His posture shifts.
“You didn’t see anything on your way over here?” Wright asks him. “Didn’t pass the perp on your way up the driveway?” He looks skeptical, almost accusatory. Whether it’s because he’s genuinely curious about Rory’s whereabouts or didn’t like the small strike to his ego, I’m not sure.
“No one,” Rory says matter-of-factly. “The street was empty, too. That was only a minute before the girls got back anyway. I was in my room on my computer before that.”
“We’d love some proof,” Wright says, a grin on his lips.
“Rory didn’t do this,” Amelia says in a light, respectful defense. “Just… please help us find who did.”
Officer Wright gives her a soft look before gazing back at Rory, expecting a response.
Rory scoffs. “I’ll show you proof. Come on over and look at what I’ve been working on.”
Both officers nod, and Wright fishes a business card from his pocket and hands one to Amelia and me. “If you see or rememberanything.”
“We’ll follow up,” Smith adds with a cordial nod.
