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“Don’t tell anyone,” I say.
“No one to tell,” she says. “Dad is out doing his job. Bree turned in, and Nana is in…”
I’m already out the door, running down 15th Street toward U Street. Number 1411. I can make it there in less than two minutes.
THE HOUSE ON1411 U Street. The Pearson house. A small split-level. White aluminum siding. A red front door. Neat and tidy.
The upstairs lights are on. The downstairs lights are on. But that’s it. No police. No sirens. No flashing lights. No nosy neighbors.
What’s going on?
I text Gabe.
Am at crime scene. Nothing.
He texts back.
Ur there already wow. DCP on way. Stay cool.
Now I get it. I live so close that I beat the police to the location.
I study the house a little more carefully, and I get the feeling that something isn’t quite right. It’s not just all the bright indoor lighting. There’s a big brown leather easy chair overturned on the front lawn toward the side of the house. In the tiny driveway, the side door on the passenger side of a Kia has been left open. Even that storybook red front door has been left open a crack. It seems maybe that someone was in a big rush to get inside or outside. I can’t figure out which.
But I want to check it out. Just like a real detective would.
I slowly walk up to the house, when all of a sudden, I hear voices coming from inside. I can’t understand a word of anything that’s being said, but they’re definitely voices. A radio? Someone on speakerphone? Whatever it is, they sound urgent. Not scared, just nervous.
Seconds after I hear those voices, I hear sirens. No one asked me, and I still have a lot to learn about police work, but screaming-loud sirens can’t be a good idea. What if someone in the house is violent and dangerous? Then couldn’t they become more scared and more anxious? Couldn’t they end up doing something dangerous?
The first of three police cars screeches into the Pearsons’ tiny driveway. The other two police cars park on the street. A fourth car shows up and puts itself smack on the small front lawn. Two ambulances—a fire department ambulance and a hospital ambulance—roar up, also with sirens screaming.
Then suddenly I hear, we all hear, the unmistakable explosion of gunfire.
One shot.
Two shots.
Three shots.
Men and women, officers and EMS workers, all rush from their vehicles. Some approach the house. Others start setting up roadblocks. They wrap yellowPOLICE LINE DO NOT CROSStape around trees and sawhorses.
I look at the crowd of police gathering. Six of them are in uniform. Three of them are in plain clothes.
And one of those plainclothes officers is my dad.
“Get the hell out of here, kid,” another police officer hisses at me. I’m still on the street in front of the house, but close enough to see the action. “You wanna get killed?”
He’s right. Maybe I could be killed.
My heart is pounding. My breathing is sharp, fast.
But I’m not going anywhere.
Not when my dad’s life isalsoin danger.
I need to stay and see what happens.
When no one is looking, I run to the side of the house and stand on a strip of brown lawn near the driveway. I have a pretty good view of the front of the house, if I squat and lean forward a little. And I have a very clear view of the police and vehicles in the front of the house. Of course, the person I’m mostly concentrating on watching is my dad. Right now he’s talking with two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, both of them armed.
