Page 193 of Yearn

What? His legal team? Coming? Now? Whoa.

I forced my legs to move, one foot in front of the other, down the hallway to the front door. Through the peephole I could see two officers—one older with gray at his temples, one younger with his hand resting on his belt.

I unlocked the door and opened it.

"Ma'am, we received a 911 call from this address?" The older officer—his name tag read MORRISON—looked me over quickly.

The younger officer quirked his brows. "Are you Teyonah Harris?"

"Yes." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "I called. My ex-husband, he's—he came home intoxicated and became threatening when I tried to help him. He went for his gun."

Both officers' hands moved toward their weapons. "Ma'am, is there an immediate threat right now?"

"Yes. I think. He's in the office. My tenant stopped him before—" I swallowed hard. "The gun is on the floor. He can barely stand. He's very intoxicated."

Morrison and Chang—the younger officer—exchanged a look.

"Where are your children?" Morrison asked.

"Upstairs. Asleep. They're safe." That came out firm, protective. "I made sure they were safe first."

"And this tenant you mentioned?"

"Right here." Dominic emerged from behind me, hands visible, posture non-threatening. "Dominic Castellano. I rent the basement apartment. I heard the commotion, jumped out of bed, raced up, and intervened when it became clear Ms. Harris was in danger."

Officer Chang's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you disarmed the subject?"

"He was fumbling with a weapon while making threats. I removed it before anyone got hurt."

"We're going to need to see that office," Morrison said. "Ma'am, can you show us?"

“Yes.” I led them down the hallway, my heart hammering so hard I was sure they could hear it. Behind me, I felt Dominic's presence—solid, steady.

The office door stood open.

Scott sat slumped in his desk chair, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He looked up when we entered, his face a mess of tears, sweat, and something that might have been greenish-yellow vomit on his collar.

"Officers." His voice slurred badly. "Thank God. This man—the tenant—he seduced my wife. He—"

"Ex-wife," I said quietly.

"Sir, I need you to keep your hands where I can see them," Morrison commanded.

Scott's hands flew up, trembling violently. “I’m a. . .lawyer. . .listen to me. . .he was fucking. . .her. I-in my house. . .”

Chang moved past him to the desk, his eyes cataloging the scene. The gun on the floor. The bullets scattered everywhere. The briefcase splayed open.

His hand moved to his radio. "Morrison."

Morrison looked over, followed his partner's gaze.

The small plastic bag with white powder sat right there on the desk.

There were also lines of residue.

It was all impossible to miss.

"Sir," Morrison's tone shifted, became harder. "Is that your briefcase?"