It was a deliberate wall of noise.
Something designed specifically to drown out whatever else might be happening—or screaming—inside that house.
Standing squarely in the doorway, illuminated from behind by the television’s frantic flashes, was Thomas.
He was broad shouldered and in his early forties, dressed in a faded gray construction t-shirt and dark, rigid jeans. He tried to smile, carefully shaping his lips into a manufactured expression obviously intended to communicate confusion and cooperative neighborliness.
“Officers? Good evening,” Thomas said, nearly shouting over the manic cartoon music. “Is there a problem?”
But his smile never reached his eyes.
His eyes were wide and dark, darting rapidly across our ballistic vests, our radios, and the position of our hands near our holsters. Despite the brutal October cold spilling through the doorway behind us, his forehead glistened with fresh nervous sweat.
One bead slowly traveled down his temple.
“Mr. Miller?” Daniel asked, his voice slicing directly through the cartoon noise, deep, resonant, and saturated with authority. “We need you to turn that television down. Right now.”
Thomas hesitated for less than a second, his heavy jaw visibly tightening.
Then he released a short, awkward, barking laugh.
“Right, sorry. The game… I mean, the show was a bit loud for Emily.”
He didn’t turn around searching for a remote.
Instead, he blindly reached around the corner of the wall and pressed a smart-home switch.
The television died instantly.
The abrupt silence filling the house was heavier, more oppressive, and infinitely more frightening than the noise had been.
“We received a 911 call from this address,” I said, moving closer to the threshold and planting my heavy boots firmly on his welcome mat, effectively preventing him from shutting the door. I locked my gaze directly onto his. “A child in severe distress. We need to see your daughter immediately.”
The artificial smile slipped by barely a fraction before he forced it back into position.
