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“What do you have to say about the allegations?”

I keep my head down, pushing through the crowd. They’re relentless, shoving mics and cameras in my face.

“No comment!” I shout, my voice hoarse.

Inside, it’s quieter, but not by much. Officers hustle around, phones ringing, people shouting.

“I’m here to see Richard Grayson,” I tell the woman at the desk.

She doesn’t even look up. “Visiting hours are over.”

“I’m not visiting,” I snap. “I’m his son.”

Her eyes flick up, and she sighs. “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

“Seriously?” I throw my hands up. “He’s my dad!”

“Sir, sit down or leave,” she says firmly, turning back to her screen.

I slump into a chair, pulling my phone out again. Mr. Coleman’s name stares back at me. I hit redial.

This time, he answers.

“Eli,” he says, his tone clipped. “I’m with your father right now. I was just about to call you.”

“What the hell’s going on, Mr. Coleman?” I demand. “Why is he being arrested for something he didn’t do?”

“Calm down,” he says, but his voice isn’t exactly soothing. “There’s a lot to unpack here. But the best thing you can do right now is stay home. I’ll come by as soon as I’m finished here, and we’ll talk.”

“Home? Are you serious? I’m at the police station to see him. I need to know what’s happening!”

“Eli,” he says, his tone sharp. “You’re not gonna be able to see him. Go home. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

I bite back another outburst and hang up. My fists clench around the phone, my nails digging into my palms.

“Fine. I’ll go home,” I groan as I stand up to leave. I am already bracing myself for another onslaught of questions from the paparazzi.

What the fuck is going on?

I wish my mom was here.

The driveway’s longer than I remember, even though I’ve driven it a thousand times. The tires crunch on the gravel, the only sound besides my engine. The house ahead is all sharp angles and glass, modern as hell. My dad’s pride and joy.

I park near the front steps, leaving my bag in the car. The mansion is massive, almost sterile, like a showpiece more than a home. Inside, the floors are polished marble,reflecting the soft glow from the chandeliers. The air smells faintly of lavender and wood polish, probably Maria’s doing.

“Eli?” Her voice carries from the kitchen, soft and lilting.

I head toward her. Maria’s wiping her hands on a dish towel when I step in. She’s been with us since I was a kid, practically family.

“Hey,” I mutter, leaning against the counter.

“Dios mío,I heard about your father,” she says, her face crumpling. “Are you okay?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a mess.”

She steps closer, like she’s about to hug me but stops herself. “You should eat something. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, running a hand through my hair.