The police cars arrived without sirens.
That, somehow, made it worse.
Two officers stepped into the living room, their presence heavy, professional, already tilted toward conclusion. Monica sat with Naomi on the couch, holding her as though shielding her from the world. Ella stood behind them, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Cedric stood alone.
Duncan spoke first, his voice unsteady as he explained what he had been told. The officers nodded, taking notes, their eyes drifting toward Naomi.
"Miss," one of them said gently, crouching in front of her, "can you tell us what happened?"
Naomi's fingers twisted into Monica's sleeve.
"She's traumatized," Monica said sharply. "Do you really need her to repeat it?"
"We do," the officer replied calmly.
Naomi swallowed. Her voice came out thin, rehearsed—but breaking.
"He… he came into my room," she said. "I told him to leave. He didn't."
Cedric felt the room tilt.
"That's not true," he said, his voice hoarse. "I never went near her room. I swear."
The officer looked at him for the first time. Not with anger. With distance.
"Sir, I need you to stay quiet for now."
Sir.
Not son. Not family. Not human—just a suspect.
From the staircase, the third daughter watched, her nails digging into her palms. Every word felt wrong. Every pause felt staged.
But no one asked her anything.
The knock at the front door came an hour later.
Amanda had arrived.
She had been cooking when the call came. Duncan's number. His voice fractured, rushed, unclear. She hadn't asked questions—only wiped her hands, grabbed her bag, and left.
Now she stood in the doorway, taking in the scene with one look.
Police.
Naomi crying.
Cedric standing alone.
Her heart clenched.
"What's happening?" she asked quietly.
Monica turned slowly.
The look she gave Amanda was not surprise. It was satisfaction.
"Your son has done something unforgivable," Monica said.
Amanda ignored her.
She walked straight to Cedric and cupped his face in her hands.
"Look at me," she said.
He did.
"I didn't do it, Mama," he whispered.
She searched his eyes—not desperately, not blindly—but deeply.
"I know," she said.
The officer cleared his throat. "Ma'am, are you his mother?"
"Yes."
"We'll need you to step aside."
Amanda nodded and stepped back—but she did not move far. She stayed close enough for Cedric to feel her presence like air.
"She's lying," Cedric said again, louder now. "Please. Someone listen to me."
Monica stood.
"How dare you?" she snapped, pointing at Amanda. "After everything we allowed you into—this is what your son does?"
Amanda turned to her slowly.
"My son was raised with respect," she said evenly. "If there is an accusation, let it be investigated. But do not convict him in your heart before the truth is known."
The room went silent.
Monica laughed—a short, sharp sound.
"The truth?" she said. "My daughter is the truth."
Amanda didn't respond.
She turned back to the officers.
"May I speak with my son privately?" she asked.
The officer hesitated. Then shook his head. "Not at this time."
That was when the handcuffs came out.
Cedric didn't resist. He didn't shout. He only looked at Duncan.
"Dad," he said. "You know me."
Duncan couldn't meet his eyes.
The click of metal echoed through the room.
Amanda inhaled sharply—but still, she did not cry.
As they led Cedric toward the door, the third daughter finally spoke.
"This doesn't feel right," she said.
Everyone turned.
Monica's eyes burned.
"Enough," she said. "One victim is not enough for you?"
The girl fell silent.
Outside, neighbors watched from behind curtains.
Cedric was placed in the back of the car.
Amanda stepped forward.
"I will get a lawyer," she said to the officers. "And I will prove my son's innocence."
Monica smiled faintly.
"You can try."
The car door slammed.
As the police drove away, Amanda stood in the driveway alone, the dust settling around her feet.
Inside the house, Monica sat down slowly, her hands trembling—not from guilt, but from relief.
The war had begun.
And Cedric had already lost the first battle.