My stomach tightened. “Is someone hurt?”
“No. But… it’s serious.” A pause, then he added, “Don’t tell your parents or your sister about it.”
The words landed like a cold hand on my spine. “Why would—”
“Please,” he cut in. “Just come.”
I drove to Juniper Lane with my knuckles white on the steering wheel, rehearsing every worst-case scenario. Gas line? Mold? Some hidden hazard that would bankrupt me? When I turned onto the street, I saw two patrol cars parked in front of the house, lights off but doors open. A third vehicle—a plain sedan—sat behind them. Neighbors watched from porches like it was a slow-motion parade.
My pulse hammered. I parked at the curb and hurried up the walkway. A uniformed officer stepped toward me, palm up. “Ma’am, you need to stay back.”
“I’m the owner,” I blurted. “What’s happening?”
Behind him, Sam stood in the gutted dining room, dusty hardhat in hand. A detective in a navy blazer was speaking to him, notepad out. Sam looked up and met my eyes with an apology I didn’t understand.
Then Chloe’s silver SUV screeched to a stop behind my car, tires spitting gravel. She jumped out, face flushed, phone in her hand.
“What did you do?” she shouted at me, marching toward the officers. “That house is supposed to be ours!”
