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A few more minutes, and I figure I can say goodnight to my parents and my sister, take a long shower, and climb into my bed.
I won’t sleep; I’ll go over the game play-by-play like I do after every game, reliving my good plays, my bad plays, my so-so plays. The sting of losing won’t go away, but at least I’ll be alone.
As my dad turns into our driveway, the VW’s headlights light up our porch. “Our front door is wide open,” my mom says.
“What?” my dad answers, pulling to a stop.
“The front door,” my mom points, “it’s wide open.”
I look, and I can see she’s right.
“Is somebody in there?” Kelsey asks.
Kelsey and I start to get out of the car, but my dad stops us. “Wait,” he says, “we don’t know that it’s safe.”
He’s right—we don’t.
We close the car doors. He kills the lights, backs slowly out of the driveway, and then continues backing down the block until he’s fifty yards from the house, close enough so that we can see the front door but not so close that they—if they’re in there—can see us. While he’s doing this, my mom is calling 911.
Two police come within five minutes, but it seems like an hour. My dad waves their car down as they near our home. They talk to him for a while before slowly moving toward the house, hands on their guns, loudly announcing themselves.
Lights go on in neighbor’s homes.
We watch as the police move through our house. We can see their silhouettes as lights go on and they move from room after room. We wait and wait until the shorter one steps onto the porch and motions for us to come in.
The living room is a mess. The drawers of the small end tables by the sofa have been pulled out and their contents dumped onto the carpet. The books have been pulled out of the bookcase and lie in heaps. The Alexa speaker is missing, and so is the antique clock that sat on the mantel above the fireplace.
“How’d they get in?” my dad says. “The door looks fine, and I know I locked it.”
“Basement window,” one of the cops says. “They broke out the glass.”
My mom gives my dad a look. She’s been on my dad to get wrought iron bars on those windows ever since there’d be a break-in over on Kenwood.
The police lead us as slowly through the house. Every room is a shambles. Drawers pulled out; clothes dumped; counters swept clean. My mom’s desktop computer is still there. My laptop and my dad’s laptop are gone. So is my mom’s iPad. My X-box has been toppled and the screen is a spider web of cracks. I can tell right away that my Seahawks parka is gone and so are my new Nikes. Probably other stuff is gone, too.
We go to Kelsey’s room last. Her clothes are stewn on the floor, and her chest of drawers is toppled over, but that’s it. Still, the whole thing hits her hardest. She covers her face with her hands, hunches her shoulders, and sobs. My mom puts her arm around her. “It’ll be okay,” my mom says.
“No, it won’t,” Kelsey says. “It won’t, it won’t, it won’t.”
My dad and I and the two cops head downstairs, while my mom stays upstairs with Kelsey.
“A detective will be here in the morning,” the taller cop says at the door. “You should take photos and make a list of everything that’s missing—your insurance company will want that. The pictures will help the detective, too. We could get lucky and catch these guys. And you’ll want to board up that basement window.”
“Aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints?” my dad asks.
The stocky cop shakes his head. “No, there’s no point. Your prints and your wife’s and your son’s and your daughter’s and any visitors you’ve had--all of you have been picking stuff and putting it down. There are way too many fingerprints. It’s not like TV.”
Just as they’re about to leave, my dad’s eyes light up. “Wait,” he says, “we’ve got a Ring camera. Maybe it caught their faces.”
The police wait as my dad opens the app on his phone. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for. At 10:18, the camera catches four guys sneaking along the driveway toward the side of the house. My dad freezes the video, and we look.
They are all wearing dark clothes and have ski masks covering their faces. The only thing that jumps out are the neon green Nikes that one of them is wearing.
“Show that video to the detective tomorrow,” the stocky cop says. “Those shoes might help.”
When they leave, my mom comes downstairs, takes a deep breath and exhales. “Okay, Brock,” she says. “Clean up your own room and get yourself a shower, and then try to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll need to start a list of everything that’s missing or damaged for the insurance company.”
“What about Kelsey?” I ask. “How’s she?”
“She’ll be okay,” my mom says. “It’ll just take a while.”
Silence, then my dad speaks. “Nobody got hurt,” he says. “That’s the key thing. Stuff is just stuff.”
Upstairs, I pick up my clothes and shove them back into my drawers, get the useless X-Box upright, take a quick shower, and climb into bed. I can hear my parents moving around downstairs, straightening stuff, and I think I can hear Kelsey crying, but I’m not sure about that.
I won’t sleep; I’ll go over the game play-by-play like I do after every game, reliving my good plays, my bad plays, my so-so plays. The sting of losing won’t go away, but at least I’ll be alone.
As my dad turns into our driveway, the VW’s headlights light up our porch. “Our front door is wide open,” my mom says.
“What?” my dad answers, pulling to a stop.
“The front door,” my mom points, “it’s wide open.”
I look, and I can see she’s right.
“Is somebody in there?” Kelsey asks.
Kelsey and I start to get out of the car, but my dad stops us. “Wait,” he says, “we don’t know that it’s safe.”
He’s right—we don’t.
We close the car doors. He kills the lights, backs slowly out of the driveway, and then continues backing down the block until he’s fifty yards from the house, close enough so that we can see the front door but not so close that they—if they’re in there—can see us. While he’s doing this, my mom is calling 911.
Two police come within five minutes, but it seems like an hour. My dad waves their car down as they near our home. They talk to him for a while before slowly moving toward the house, hands on their guns, loudly announcing themselves.
Lights go on in neighbor’s homes.
We watch as the police move through our house. We can see their silhouettes as lights go on and they move from room after room. We wait and wait until the shorter one steps onto the porch and motions for us to come in.
The living room is a mess. The drawers of the small end tables by the sofa have been pulled out and their contents dumped onto the carpet. The books have been pulled out of the bookcase and lie in heaps. The Alexa speaker is missing, and so is the antique clock that sat on the mantel above the fireplace.
“How’d they get in?” my dad says. “The door looks fine, and I know I locked it.”
“Basement window,” one of the cops says. “They broke out the glass.”
My mom gives my dad a look. She’s been on my dad to get wrought iron bars on those windows ever since there’d be a break-in over on Kenwood.
The police lead us as slowly through the house. Every room is a shambles. Drawers pulled out; clothes dumped; counters swept clean. My mom’s desktop computer is still there. My laptop and my dad’s laptop are gone. So is my mom’s iPad. My X-box has been toppled and the screen is a spider web of cracks. I can tell right away that my Seahawks parka is gone and so are my new Nikes. Probably other stuff is gone, too.
We go to Kelsey’s room last. Her clothes are stewn on the floor, and her chest of drawers is toppled over, but that’s it. Still, the whole thing hits her hardest. She covers her face with her hands, hunches her shoulders, and sobs. My mom puts her arm around her. “It’ll be okay,” my mom says.
“No, it won’t,” Kelsey says. “It won’t, it won’t, it won’t.”
My dad and I and the two cops head downstairs, while my mom stays upstairs with Kelsey.
“A detective will be here in the morning,” the taller cop says at the door. “You should take photos and make a list of everything that’s missing—your insurance company will want that. The pictures will help the detective, too. We could get lucky and catch these guys. And you’ll want to board up that basement window.”
“Aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints?” my dad asks.
The stocky cop shakes his head. “No, there’s no point. Your prints and your wife’s and your son’s and your daughter’s and any visitors you’ve had--all of you have been picking stuff and putting it down. There are way too many fingerprints. It’s not like TV.”
Just as they’re about to leave, my dad’s eyes light up. “Wait,” he says, “we’ve got a Ring camera. Maybe it caught their faces.”
The police wait as my dad opens the app on his phone. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for. At 10:18, the camera catches four guys sneaking along the driveway toward the side of the house. My dad freezes the video, and we look.
They are all wearing dark clothes and have ski masks covering their faces. The only thing that jumps out are the neon green Nikes that one of them is wearing.
“Show that video to the detective tomorrow,” the stocky cop says. “Those shoes might help.”
When they leave, my mom comes downstairs, takes a deep breath and exhales. “Okay, Brock,” she says. “Clean up your own room and get yourself a shower, and then try to get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll need to start a list of everything that’s missing or damaged for the insurance company.”
“What about Kelsey?” I ask. “How’s she?”
“She’ll be okay,” my mom says. “It’ll just take a while.”
Silence, then my dad speaks. “Nobody got hurt,” he says. “That’s the key thing. Stuff is just stuff.”
Upstairs, I pick up my clothes and shove them back into my drawers, get the useless X-Box upright, take a quick shower, and climb into bed. I can hear my parents moving around downstairs, straightening stuff, and I think I can hear Kelsey crying, but I’m not sure about that.
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