Glass shattered.
He jerked her around and shielded her with his body. A dull thud and Detective Lawson’s pained grunt indicated something had hit him.
Police whistles blew on the street. Calls of “run” and “stop” added to the sense of chaos out of view.
Lawson released her, spun on his heel, and hopped over the shattered window’s ledge to the grassy area on the other side. “Hall, stay with the Peltons.” Command given, he joined in chasing the protesters.
Still trying to understand what exactly happened, Lydia studied the floor. Glass lay in glinting shards around her. A brick edger from their front garden lay at her feet. Crudely scraped white letters stood out against the red clay.
Murderer.
A lump formed in her throat. Had someone thrown that at her?
Don’t be stupid. Of course they did. Bricks don’t tattoo themselves, grow wings, and attack.
Someone had deliberately tried to hurt her.
A tremor traveled down her spine. Name-calling she could handle, but she was under no illusion that she could withstand a physical attack. If they were trying to harm her while in her home, what would they do if they caught her on the street?
“Are you hurt, Miss Pelton?” Detective Hall’s concerned voice came from just behind her.
Lydia glanced at the glass, the broken window frame, then back at the brick. If it hadn’t been for the quick reflexes of Detective Lawson, that brick would have hit her.
“I’m fine, but someone threw that at me!” Lydia jabbed a finger in the brick’s direction. “I don’t understand. This isn’t my fault. I’m not the murderer. Whoever is pretending to be Billy Poe is.”
Again, her eyes sought the accusation literally thrown at her. That was poetic justice. A written word with the power to actually kill had it hit her just right. She hugged herself tightly.
Detective Hall guided her gently away from the glass field.
When he transferred her to Papa’s care in the foyer, she couldn’t hide the tremor in her hands.
Papa wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and though his disapproval hadn’t abated, compassion softened his features. “Our words have power, Lydia, no matter if they are meant to be fictional or not. We must always be careful in what we say or write and be sure that it is God-glorifying and edifying to those around us.”
He didn’t say that her Billy Poe novels didn’t measure up to that standard, but it wasn’t necessary.
“What happened?” Madelyn was halfway down the stairs before Papa could stop her.
“Go pack a bag. We’ll be staying”—he glanced at the gaping hole in their wall where a window should have been—“elsewhere.”
He probably feared someone still lingered nearby and might overhear their new location.
Madelyn opened her mouth to argue, but when she saw the mess in the parlor, she glared at Lydia. “This is your fault. I was supposed to have friends over this afternoon.”
“Madelyn.”
At Papa’s stern rebuke, Madelyn stomped back upstairs and slammed her bedroom door.
“George?” Momma called from the kitchen with an edge of panic.
Papa ran a hand over his balding spot before addressing Detective Hall. “If you’ll please stay with Lydia and ensure no one enters the house through the parlor, I must calm my wife.”
Papa left them in the foyer. They had a clear view to the kitchen, where Momma stood twisting a towel in her hands. Behind her was Marcus Monroe.
What was he doing here?
Marcus glanced Lydia’s direction, worry etched deeply in his face. He didn’t approach her or even call for her but extended a piece of paper to Papa. He shook his head at her before guiding Momma and Papa farther into the kitchen.
If he thought to exclude her from a conversation with her parents, he was sorely mistaken.
