“My baby girl was in that van when the rock came through the window,” Everett says, voice low. “My sons were, too.”
“My house was hit with eggs,” I add. “So was Everett’s place. Harassment. Rocks. This isn’t kids being kids. This is criminal behavior.”
The boys in the hallway go quieter, but their eyes stay bright. This is viral entertainment.
Daryl takes a swig of his beer. “So what? You here to arrest my boy for having friends?”
“We’re here to ask questions,” Everett says. “Because we’ve had enough.”
Tammy shifts her weight from one foot to the other, arms folded across her chest like she wants to holdherself together. “Maybe we should all sit down,” she says. “And talk this out like adults.”
“That would be nice,” I say. “Talking like adults would be a refreshing change of pace.”
One of the boys snickers. Tyler, I think.
Everett ignores it. “We reviewed the security footage from our properties,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Multiple angles. Multiple nights.”
Daryl’s eyes narrow. “And?”
“And we saw a group of male individuals, roughly Tyler’s age, wearing hoodies and masks, throwing eggs and rocks, writing on the driveway.” Everett’s tone is flat, clinical. “We might not be able to see faces, but we can see build, height, and shoes.”
One of the boys from the other room laughs outright, and the sound slaps against my nerves.
“You got proof?” Daryl asks with a smirk spreading. “Or is this one of thosecop hunchesI hear so much about?”
“We have them on camera,” Everett says. “We have timestamps. Patterns. Enough to know this isn’t random.”
Tammy’s brows knit together. “So you have my son and his friends on camera,” she says slowly. “Is that what you’re saying?”
I glance at Everett. This is the part where we have to be careful.
“We have a group of teenagers matching their size and shape on camera,” I say. “We can’t say with one hundred percent certainty it’s them. Yet. But the odds aren’t in their favor.”
The boy cluster erupts in muttered commentary. One of them whispers, “Told you they couldn’t see,” and gets elbowed into silence.
Knew it.
Daryl’s smirk widens. “So, no faces. No names. Just a couple of tall shadows in hoodies. That about right?”
“For now,” Everett says. “But patterns build. Witnesses talk.”
“Witnesses?” Daryl barks out a laugh. “What, you got a psychic squirrel watching the neighborhood?”
Unhelpful images of Percy the peacock flash through my mind. I keep my mouth shut.
“We’re not here because we love spending our free time like this,” I say. “We’re here because we have little kids in those houses. Babies. And they’re scared. My wife is scared.”
Everett slices me a side glance, and I shrug. I can’t help it, it slipped.
“We’re asking you to help us put a stop to this before someone gets hurt,” I say. “Before we have to treat your son like a case file instead of a neighbor.”
Daryl’s jaw clenches. “You don’t tell me how to raise my kid.”
“No one’s trying to,” I say, even though, yes, we absolutely are. “We’re asking you to talk to him. To his friends.”
Tyler shifts in the hallway, arms folded, chin up. That same cocky tilt I’ve seen too many times in too many juvenile intake photos.
“This is getting old,” Daryl mutters. “We already told you we didn’t do anything.”
