No one responded at first, not from defiance but from restraint. Hands remained visible. No one stepped forward aggressively. Finally, a tall rider in his mid fifties with a salt and pepper beard took a small step ahead of the others.
“We’re not here to cause trouble,” he said calmly.
“You blocking traffic?” the officer asked.
“No, sir.”
Windows along the block cracked open slightly. Someone whispered loudly, “They’re claiming the house.” Another voice added, “That poor child.”
The bearded rider did not react. His eyes remained fixed on the glowing upstairs bedroom window.
At 7:48 p.m., the front door opened cautiously. Melissa stepped onto the porch, arms wrapped tight around herself.
“What do you want?” she demanded, voice unsteady.
“We’re here for Scott,” the bearded rider replied.
The words sounded harsh in the rain.
“For Scott?” she shot back. “You are not taking anything from this house.”
A ripple moved through the line of bikers, not anger but grief. One officer shifted closer between them.
“Let’s keep this calm,” he warned.
A neighbor called out, “We don’t want trouble here.”
