Yearn

Chapter 32 Blue Lights

Chapter thirty-two

Blue Lights

Teyonah

Fuck. The police are here. What are we going to do?

I moved down the stairs like a ghost, my legs operating on autopilot while my mind felt wrapped in cotton.

Emotionally exhausted didn't even cover it.

I'd changed into jeans and a simple t-shirt—normal clothes that covered everything, that made me look like a mother instead of. . .whatever I'd been an hour ago. My hands had fumbled with the zipper, the buttons.

Everything felt foreign, like I was operating someone else's body.

Before coming down, I'd cracked open J's door.

Still asleep, thumb near their mouth the way they did when they were really deep under.

Oliver's room next—nightlight casting soft shadows across his face, peaceful and oblivious.

How had they slept through everything?

The yelling.

The confrontation.

My own terrified phone call to 911.

It must have been some blessing I didn't deserve but was desperately grateful for.

The doorbell rang again for the second time, and then was followed by heavy knocking.

"Police! Open up!"

“Coming!” I reached the bottom of the stairs just as Dominic appeared from the hallway, and we nearly collided.

"Careful—" His hands steadied me. “Everything is okay. The gun and bullets are on the floor. Scott is too fucked up to even grab them.”

Dominic was still not wearing a shirt. I hoped to God that wouldn’t be suspicious to the cops.

“O-okay.” I headed to the door.

He stopped me. “Hold on.”

I shivered.

"Listen to me." His voice was low and urgent. "Keep it simple. Your ex-husband violated the court order terms. Came home extremely intoxicated on drugs. Became threatening when you tried to help him. You feared for your safety and your children's safety. That's it. Nothing else."

"But—"

"Nothing else, Teyonah." His eyes held mine. "Remember. Trust me."

The doorbell rang.

The knocking came again, more insistent.

I nodded, even though my throat felt tight.

He squeezed my shoulders once, then stepped back. “I’ll fill in any gaps if you pause. Don’t worry. My legal team is on their way. The firm is close to here.”

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?"

"What?” Scott held his stomach like he was about to vomit again. “Y-you’re not. . .listening. . .his cock. . .was in my w-wife. My wife!! The. . .whore—"

"Have you taken any controlled substances tonight?"

"What? N-no. I haven't. . .taken anything." Scott's denial came too fast, too desperate. His bottom lip quivered. “Arrest my—"

"Sir." Chang gestured at the bag. "What is that?"

Scott's eyes went to the cocaine, and his face went gray-green. "That's not mine. It’s. . .his. I. . .no. I don’t do drugs—"

And then he vomited.

Right there on the desk, his body convulsing as everything came up—the beer, the cocaine, the McDonald’s, the lies.

Ick!

I looked away from the desk.

The officers stepped back.

"Jesus Christ," Chang muttered.

When Scott finished, he groaned in pain. “His cock was in h-her.”

Morrison pointed his gun at Scott. "Mr. Harris, stand up. Slowly."

“What? W-why?” Scott tried to stand up, stumbling and then dry-heaving. "You don't. . . understand. He f-fucked my wife. His cock—"

"Sir, you need to stop talking," Morrison said.

But Scott couldn't stop. The words kept pouring out between gasps and sobs. "She was down there f-fucking him. My wife. . .she’s a-always been. . .a whore—"

Some movement sounded from the other side of the house.

I heard the front door slam closed.

What the hell? Who is that?

Five men entered.

Not just men.

Dominic’s lawyers.

Shock surged through me.

I could tell by the designer suits that probably cost more than my car, the expensive briefcases, the way they moved with absolute authority into my home like they owned it that they would not be playing around.

The lead lawyer—silver-haired, sharp-eyed—pulled out a business card. "Spencer Peterson, lead counsel. We represent Ms. Harris and Mr. Castellano."

Officer Morrison's eyebrows went up. "That's quite a response time. Why are you here?"

"We were already enroute when we received notification of the situation." Spencer's smile was professional. "My clients are the victims of an intoxicated home invasion by an ex-spouse with documented substance abuse issues. I trust that will be reflected accurately in all reports."

The other four lawyers fanned out—one taking photos with a professional camera, another reviewing the scene, two more flanking Spencer like a wall of legal protection.

Oh shit.

The officers looked distinctly uncomfortable now.

"We still need statements," Morrison said, but his voice had lost some of its authority.

"Of course. My clients are eager to cooperate." Spencer gestured smoothly. "However, any questioning will be conducted with counsel present."

What followed after that was a blur of controlled chaos.

More photos.

More questions—carefully deflected and reframed by Spencer and his team.

Scott being read his rights while still crying and vomiting, still trying to explain what he’d saw, still not understanding that no one was listening to his version anymore.

The cocaine was bagged as evidence.

The gun catalogued and taken too.

Scott’s slurred protests about Dominic’s cock and my betrayal fell on increasingly deaf ears as the physical evidence mounted against him.

"The subject appears to be under the influence of multiple substances," Chang reported into his radio. "Cocaine visible at the scene. Subject admits to alcohol consumption. Weapon present. We're placing him under arrest."

"What? No. Arrest. . .him. Not me. . .you can't. . .I know my rights. . .I’m a lawyer. . .I am friends with. . .your superiors, asshole—" Scott tried to lunge forward and nearly fell.

Morrison caught Scott, turned him around, and then cuffed him. "Scott Harris, you're under arrest for possession of a controlled substance, reckless endangerment, and violation of a court protective order."

The Miranda rights faded into background noise.

I watched them lead him out—stumbling, crying, a broken man in handcuffs.

And I felt. . .nothing.

No satisfaction.

No victory.

Just bone-deep exhaustion of this insane night and the strange lightness of something heavy finally letting go.

Outside, I could see neighbors on their porches. Mr. Mason across the street shaking his head at the display as he stood next to his racist statues. The college kids from further across the street recording on their phones.

Blue and red lights painted everything in stark, judging colors.

My face burned with embarrassment.

Everyone would know.

Everyone would talk.

But underneath the shame was something else.

Freedom.

Scott was gone.

Really, truly gone this time.

I turned to the left.

What the hell?

There, sitting on her porch in the darkness just beyond the police lights, was Mrs. Patterson. For some reason. . .tonight, she looked. . .different.

She had a cigarette between her fingers and was taking long, elegant drags that sent smoke curling into the night air. I'd lived next to her for several years and never once seen her smoke.

Never even smelled it.

But that wasn't what made me stare.

It was the way she sat.

Loose.

Relaxed.

Sated.

Her housecoat was slightly open at the collar, and her thick black hair—usually pinned up in those damn rollers—hung loose around her shoulders, messy and wild.

Her lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth as she smiled.

She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly, completely, satisfyingly fucked.

Oh shit. What were you doing, Mrs. Patterson?

With Scott being dragged away in handcuffs twenty feet from her porch, she took another drag of her cigarette, and our eyes met across the darkness.

Mrs. Patterson didn't look away, and there was no judgement on her face.

She just made that smile even wider.

Then she lifted her cigarette in a small salute—to me?

To the police cars?

To the chaos?

I didn’t know. . .

And then she took another deep drag.

The smoke drifted up into the night, and in the red and blue lights.

I had no idea what had happened in Mrs. Patterson's house tonight.

But something had.

And as Scott was shoved into the back of the police car—still crying, still protesting, still not understanding how completely he'd lost—Mrs. Patterson took one more drag, stubbed out her cigarette, and went inside.

Her porch light clicked off.

Whatever she'd witnessed, whatever she knew, she'd taken it with her into the dark.

And somehow, I knew she'd never speak of it.

Some secrets, apparently, were too delicious to share.

Even for the neighborhood's most dedicated busybody.

The police cars finally pulled away, taking him with them. The neighbors gradually dispersed, though I could still see curtains twitching, could feel their eyes and their questions.

Inside, Spencer and his team were still here, talking in low voices near the kitchen.

Dominic stood among them, listening, nodding, occasionally giving what looked like instructions.

I watched him—this man who'd somehow produced five lawyers in the middle of the night, who'd disarmed my ex-husband, who'd stayed calm while everything fell apart.

Who was he, really?

Spencer nodded at whatever Dominic had said and pulled out his phone. The other lawyers packed up their equipment with efficient precision.

Dominic looked around my house—at the kitchen where the table still sat slightly askew, at the office where Scott had pulled a gun, at the stairs leading up to where my children slept.

Then he turned to Spencer. "Get my house ready. Tell Matilda I'm coming home with my new family." His voice was firm, decisive. "We can't stay here tonight."

My house? Matilda? New family?

He crossed to me, and I saw something in his face I hadn't seen before—not just protectiveness, but ownership. Certainty. Like he'd already made all the decisions and was just waiting for me to catch up.

"Would it be okay to move the kids tonight?" Dominic asked softly. "I'll do my best not to wake them too much. But we need to leave. Now."

I looked around at my house.

The place where I'd built a life with Scott. Where I'd brought my babies home from the hospital. Where I'd cried in the shower and painted in the kitchen and slowly learned what it meant to be alone.

The place where, an hour ago, I'd been spread out on the kitchen table getting fucked while my ex-husband watched.

I didn't want to be here anymore.

Didn't want to sleep in these rooms, walk these hallways, or remember any of it.

"Okay," I whispered.

Dominic's hand cupped my face gently. "Go pack a bag. Whatever you and the kids need for a few days. My team will handle the rest."

"Where are we going?"

"Home," he said simply. "My home. Our home now."

I didn't ask what his place looked like. Didn't ask about Matilda or how big his house was or whether he had room for two children and their exhausted mother.

I just nodded and headed upstairs.

Because somewhere between fucking on the kitchen table and the police cars, between the gun and the lawyers, between his clinical calm and his protective rage, I'd made a decision.

I trusted him.

With my heart.

With my kids.

With my soul.

With everything I had left to give.

And as I pulled out suitcases and started packing J's favorite pajamas and Oliver's stuffed elephant, I realized something else.

For the first time in years, I wasn't afraid of what came next.

I was ready for it.