Before Terry could respond, commotion near the front door caught his attention. A tall man in expensive casual wear, even at this time of night, was arguing with one of the deputies, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from money and position. Terry recognized him immediately.
"Blackwood," Sam muttered, approaching their group. "Just arrived from Williamsburg. He’s going to shit a fuckin’ brick when he sees this house."
Terry watched as Harrison Blackwood strode into his rental property, his face cycling through disbelief, anger, and what looked like genuine shock. His eyes swept over the destruction with the expression of someone calculating exactly the cost of what it would take to fix his property.
"Mr. Blackwood," Terry called out, stepping forward with his badge visible. "Captain Terry Bunswick, Eastern Shore Drug Task Force. I'm sorry about your property, but we need to ask you some questions."
Harrison's attention snapped to Terry, his composure returning with the speed of someone accustomed to handling crises on building sites and in boardrooms. "Captain, I want to make it clear that I had no knowledge of what was happening here tonight."
"Can you tell us about the rental arrangement?"
"Everything went through Baytown Properties Management," Blackwood said, pulling out his phone. "I can give you their contact information. According to them, the renters presented themselves as graduate students needing a quiet place for a weekend study retreat. They paid in full, provided references, and seemed completely legitimate."
Terry noted the tic in Blackwood's jaw and was sure the man was barely hanging on to his shit in the face of what it would take to restore the rental property to its former value. "Do you have copies of their identification and payment records?"
"All handled through the management company. I rarely deal directly with renters unless there's a problem." Blackwood's gaze swept over the destruction again, his mouth tightening. "Obviously, this qualifies as a problem."
While Terry continued to question Blackwood, Jeremy and Pete began working with the sheriff's detectives to separate the college students for individual interviews. The contrast between the groups was immediately apparent. The Virginia Beach college kids huddled together with the wide-eyed terror of someone who'd found themselves in serious trouble. But the original renters projected a completely different energy.
"This is such bullshit," declared a young man with perfectly styled blond hair and a UVA lacrosse T-shirt. "My dad's going to have your badges for harassment. We were just having a study group, then invited a few friends from Virginia Beach, and a bunch of losers crashed our party."
His companion, a girl with expensive highlights and designer clothes, nodded vigorously. "Madison Hartwell," she announced to the deputy taking her statement, as though her name should carry weight. "My father is Richard Hartwell of Hartwell Attorneys at Law. You might want to call him before you do something you'll regret."
Terry watched the performance with growing disgust. These kids weren't just entitled, but were practiced at using their families' influence to escape consequences. He'd seen it before with wealthy families who treated the legal system like another service they could purchase.
"Captain." Aaron Bergstrom approached with a clipboard full of notes. "We've got seventeen ODU students, guys from the same fraternity and their dates or friends. One is a local girl who just graduated from Baytown High School last year and is now at ODU. Says she came with one of the students, thinking she might see some old friends. The one guy standing over near thedoor is a local junior at Baytown High School. He was here to deliver the pizzas. He stayed when he recognized the local girl and said she looked out of place.”
"Sounds like a party that got out of hand. And just happens to be where a stash of expensive drugs was found?" Terry felt his frustration building as the pieces of a more complex operation began to emerge. This wasn't just college kids partying too hard. His gut told him that someone had used this beach house as a distribution point.But who all was involved?
"Pete, what about the neighbors?" Terry called out.
"Talked to the woman who called it in," Pete reported. "Mrs. Chalmers. Lives two houses down. Says cars started arriving around seven o'clock, but the noise didn't get bad until close to ten. She counted at least fifteen vehicles at various times."
"Any of the neighbors see anything else?"
"The house on the north side is empty. The owners live in DC and use it only in the summer. But the elderly couple on the south side, the Hendricks, said they saw people carrying suitcases and grocery bags into the house Thursday afternoon, so they assumed it was a long weekend rental."
Terry's radio crackled, and he stepped away to take the update from the lab team that had arrived to process evidence. By the time he'd finished coordinating with them, the eastern sky was beginning to show the first hints of dawn. The sight made his stomach clench as he thought about Sandra, probably asleep on his couch, wondering where the hell he was.
The evidence collection was methodical but time-consuming. Every bag of drugs had to be photographed, cataloged, and properly stored. The packaging materials suggested this was a delivery of drugs for distribution rather than personal use.
As the night sky gave way to the first lighting of the day, the sheriff’s deputies had handled the ones under the influence of alcohol, and others were released. A few had parents from theChesapeake area who came to pick them up. Terry watched the mixture of responses with interest. Some parents arrived with the kind of composed anger that came with knowing exactly which lawyers to call, while others showed up looking genuinely shocked and disappointed.
One local family in particular caught his attention. When seventeen-year-old Jose Garcia’s parents arrived, there was no shouting or threats about lawyers. Instead, his mother just murmured, "Let’s go home," and his father, already wearing his work uniform for the day, just shook his head sadly.
"We trust you and can’t believe you’d betray that trust. When we get home, you can tell us what happened," his mother said softly.
Terry found himself admiring their approach. No excuses. No blaming others. Just genuine parental disappointment, yet the offer that the young man would have his chance to explain.
Within several hours, most partygoers had been picked up by another adult or taken in to detox in the county jail until released with charges that would likely be reduced to misdemeanors—underage drinking, disorderly conduct, maybe possession if they were unlucky.
The five original grad students remained, but most of their attitudes hadn't improved. If anything, they'd become more belligerent as the night wore on.
"This is harassment," Robert Whitman declared loudly enough for everyone to hear. "We weren't dealing drugs. We were partying, and when these others crashed our scene, someone brought this shit with them."
"Robbie, shut up," hissed one of his companions, a dark-haired girl who seemed to have more sense than the rest. "You're making it worse."
But Robert was on a roll, clearly used to talking his way out of trouble. "My dad knows the governor personally. One phonecall, and all of your careers are over. You have no proof we did anything wrong."
