Wanting to get out of this mess as quickly as possible, I head right to her desk and start rifling through the files until I find one with my mom’s name on it. Inside, there’s about three times as many papers as the bank provided her.
Something in here has to be helpful to my mom’s case, I think, and I shove the file folder down the back of my pants.
I find a thin ledger on the desk, too. My knowledge of mob movies and shows like The Sopranos tells me to take the damn ledger. It goes down the back of my pants, just like my mom’s file folder.
Next, I open the laptop. It’s password protected, so I close it and pick it up. It’s going with me.
Satisfied, I head back toward the staircase.
I’m halfway down the steps when a red flash comes through the windows looking out onto the driveway.
First one flash, then another.
Police.
How the hell did they know I was here?
Laptop in hand, I race down the rest of the stairs toward the kitchen and barely come to a stop in time to avoid the curious eyes of a patrolman who is staring at the window I busted, holding his service pistol at the ready.
I’m trapped.
Did Tiffany really rat me out to the police?
Her last warning — that I’d have to deal with the consequences — flashes through my mind, and I am more certain than ever that she must have called the cops the second I left the house. That’s the only explanation for how four armed officers showed up here so quickly, despite the alarm system being disabled.
Saint Tiffany betrayed me. We really are through. She better pray I never catch up to her.
At the base of the stairwell, I stop for a second to consider my options. There’s only a few officers here — four at most — and I know that isn’t enough men to take me down. I could fight my way out, get back on my bike, and make it to my mom’s house before any backup arrives.
But that would just make things worse.
As much as I hate to admit it, Tiffany was right. Fighting isn’t the answer.
I put my gun away and I do what she would do.
I think.
I’m trapped in this house. The only way out without getting arrested will get me flagged as someone who attacks cops. And those kind of criminals don’t last long in police custody. They also don’t get heard. I’d be lucky if they let me say three words about what’s going on with my mom before they kill me.
One last time, I look over the papers in the file folder I took from Anna’s office. There’s a ton of stuff in here that I don’t understand, but the numbers look pretty fucking big and I have to hope they’re damning enough that even the cops won’t be able to turn a blind eye.
Because I’m about to turn myself in.
Holding the laptop in one hand and my mom’s file folder and the ledger in the other, I raise my hands and step to the front door.
“I’m coming out. I’m turning myself in,” I shout.
It feels so wrong just saying it out loud, but it’s my only option. I have to hope that the cops will see what I’ve got in my hands and open some kind of investigation. Maybe it’ll be enough to scare Anna, her father, and the thugs from the construction yard off.
Time to face the music.
A voice comes from outside. A separate face appears in one of the front windows and then an upraised hand holding a gun that’s pointed right at me.
“Put your hands against the wall and don’t move. We’re coming in. If you try anything, we will shoot.”
I do as they ask.
The door opens, two armed officers enter. One young, one old. Both look like they’re hardasses who’ve been waiting all day to bust somebody’s balls.
“Officers, I have some documents you’ll want to look at. The woman who lives here, Anna Ebri, she and her father run Southwest Regional bank and they are involved in some kind of scam.”
“That’s enough,” the older cop says, shoving me hard into the wall and wrenching my hands behind my back. Icy steel clamps around my wrist. “You can tell your bullshit story to your lawyer. You’re under arrest for burglary.”
He pats me down.
“Go ahead, get your fill. Maybe check my ass out a little longer, why don’t you?” I growl as he runs his hands over me.
He pulls the Glock from the back of my pants. “Oh, and we get to add a weapons charge, too. That’ll add some time onto your sentencing. Throw in the bank robbery we know you tried, and you’re going away for a long time.”
The young officer flips through the file folder and the ledger. “Lot of funny shit in here,” he says. “What’s some piece of scum like you want with someone’s loan records and a bank ledger?”
“If you fuckwits show someone that understands numbers, maybe they’ll tell you,” I say.
“Ignore him,” the older cop says, shoving his elbow right into my kidneys. “That shit is evidence. And you shouldn’t be looking around people’s private financial records. Breaks all sorts of regulations. You bag that shit and we’ll process it as evidence back at the station. Come on, let’s get this asshole out of here.”
The older cop
