Red and blue, flashing across my bedroom walls, pulsing through the cheap blinds I’d never replaced.
Police lights.
My heart went straight to my throat. I threw the covers off and stumbled to the window, yanking the curtain open.
My front yard—the shared lawn area in front of our building—was full of police cars.
Not one or two. At least ten. Maybe more. Parked along the curb, in the visitor spaces, one even pulled up onto the grass. Engines running, lights flashing, creating a strobing red-and-blue nightmare right outside my apartment.
“Dad!” Nora’s scream came from the hallway. “There are cops outside!”
“Are we going to jail?” Milo yelled, his voice high with panic.
Hazel started crying, that scared-toddler cry that meant she was completely overwhelmed.
I tried to think, tried to make sense of this. What had I done? What could possibly warrant this many police cars showing up at my house at six in the morning?
“Everybody in my room,” I called out, trying to keep my voice calm. “Now. Come on.”
They piled onto my bed in a mess of tangled pajamas and messy hair—Nora clutching her stuffed bear, Hazel sobbing into Professor Carrots, Milo’s eyes huge with fear.
“Stay here,” I told them firmly. “No matter what happens, do not open the door. Understand?”
“Are you in trouble?” Nora asked, her voice small.
“I don’t think so,” I lied, because I had no idea. “But I need you to stay here and stay quiet. Okay?”
The pounding on the front door started.
“Police! Open up!”
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