Rebecca looked at me.
I swallowed.
“Subtle.”
“Your daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
Evan read it.
“Good rule.”
Lily stood.
Dust on her fingers.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you still have the scratched badge thing?”
“My credentials?”
“No.”
“The camera.”
I knew what she meant.
Mercer’s body camera.
“No.”
“Where is it?”
“Evidence.”
“Forever?”
“Probably a while.”
She thought.
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because it told the truth.”
I looked at her.
“The people did too.”
“Eventually.”
There was more wisdom in that word than I wanted an eleven-year-old to have.
Eventually.
Yes.
Before we left, Rebecca asked for one final thing.
“Hang the swing.”
I stared.
“We are moving.”
“I know.”
“The truck is packed.”
“I know.”
“It will take twenty minutes.”
She smiled.
“Your twenty minutes or actual time?”
I lost.
I rehung it.
Temporary.
Two bolts.
Enough.
Rebecca sat.
Lily beside her.
Then they looked at me.
I joined.
The porch was empty around us.
Boxes gone.
Pictures down.
Rooms echoing.
Rebecca moved the swing gently with one foot.
For a while nobody spoke.
Then Lily said:
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you know Dad was scared when the guy had the gun?”
Rebecca glanced at me.
“Yes.”
“I didn't.”
Rebecca put an arm around her.
“He's good at hiding it.”
“I have professional training.”
Rebecca smiled.
“He's emotionally constipated.”
“Rebecca.”
Lily laughed so hard the swing shook.
I looked toward the driveway.
The spot where Mercer stood.
Where Gloria stood.
Where Evan finally spoke.
Where police arrived.
Nothing marked it.
No plaque.
No scar in the concrete.
Just sunlight.
That felt right.
Lily eventually asked:
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“If you weren't a marshal, would Mr. Mercer have won?”
The question hurt differently now.
I considered lying.
Then chose truth.
“Maybe he would have gotten away with more that day.”
She looked worried.
“But not because he would have been right.”
“Then what do people do if they don't have a badge?”
I thought of Evan.
Evelyn.
Harold Owens.
The neighbors.
Sergeant Patel.
Agent Carver.
Rebecca.