The police breached the front door, hands on their holsters, responding to a violent domestic disturbance call. They found a chaotic scene: a shattered coffee table, a sobbing, bleeding man with a visibly broken wrist, a terrified older woman, and a battered woman sitting in the foyer next to a man who looked like he could snap handcuffs with his bare hands.
Leo immediately tried to play the victim. “He attacked me!” Leo shrieked, pointing his good hand at Arthur as the officers approached. “That psychopath broke into my house and tried to kill me! Arrest him!”
The lead officer, a seasoned sergeant, looked at Leo’s broken wrist, then looked at the massive red handprint swelling across my face, and my blood-soaked hospital scrubs. He recognized Arthur immediately—not personally, but he recognized the bearing, the posture, the controlled danger of a high-ranking military officer.