The scream tore through the house like a siren, sharp and jagged, pulling Emma from the haze of sleep. She bolted upright in bed, her heart hammering, the sheets tangled around her legs. The room was dim, the early morning light barely creeping through the curtains, but the noise—angry, raw, unmistakably teenage—came from downstairs. Ethan. Her son.
"Get off my case, Dad! It's not my fault!" Ethan's voice cracked with defiance, each word a blade aimed at his father.
David's low, steady tone followed, laced with frustration. "Not your fault? Ethan, you wrecked it! You think motorcycles just fix themselves?"
Emma's bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor as she stumbled out of bed, her nightgown catching on the edge of the mattress. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the argument. Motorcycle? Ethan didn't have a motorcycle. Did he? She rubbed her temples, a dull ache blooming behind her eyes. The house smelled of burnt toast and coffee, familiar yet somehow wrong, like a memory slightly out of focus.
She hurried down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister. In the kitchen, Ethan stood with his back to the counter, his dark hair falling into his eyes, fists clenched. At sixteen, he was all sharp angles and restless energy, his leather jacket scuffed and torn at the elbow. David, still in his work shirt, loomed across from him, holding a crumpled piece of paper—a repair bill, maybe? The air crackled with tension.
"Emma, tell him!" Ethan's eyes locked onto her, desperate and accusing. "Tell him it wasn't my fault!"
Before she could respond, the front door exploded inward with a splintering crash. Three police officers stormed in, their boots heavy on the floor, radios crackling. Emma froze, her breath catching in her throat. The lead officer, a broad man with a buzz cut, pointed at Ethan.
"Ethan Carter?" His voice was clipped, official. "You're coming with us."
"What?" Emma's voice broke, her hands flying to her mouth. "What's happening?"
David stepped forward, his face pale but calm. "Officers, there's been a misunderstanding—"
"No misunderstanding," the officer cut him off, pulling out handcuffs. "Your son's been identified in a motorcycle theft. Witnesses saw him riding it last night before he crashed it."
Emma's knees buckled. Theft? Ethan? Her son, who spent his evenings sketching in his notebook or sneaking extra cookies from the jar, stealing? She looked at him, searching for the boy she knew, but his face was a mask of defiance, his jaw tight.
"Mom, I didn't—" Ethan started, but the officer grabbed his arm, cutting him off.
"Save it for the station, kid."
Emma lunged forward, her maternal instinct overriding her shock. "Wait! You can't just take him! He's my son!" Her voice trembled, but her hands were steady as she reached for Ethan. The officer blocked her path, his expression softening for a split second.
"Ma'am, step back. We're just doing our job."
David's hand found her shoulder, firm but gentle. "Emma, let them handle this. We'll figure it out."
She spun to face him, her eyes blazing. "Figure it out? David, they're arresting our son!" Her voice cracked on the last word, and she caught a flicker of something in David's eyes—worry, yes, but also… exhaustion? As if this wasn't the first time.
The officers led Ethan toward the door, his sneakers dragging against the floor. He glanced back at Emma, his expression a mix of fear and something else—guilt? Shame? She couldn't tell. Her chest tightened, a visceral ache, as if someone had reached in and squeezed her heart.
As the police car's lights flashed through the window, the lead officer turned to Emma, his voice low. "Mrs. Carter, you should know—this isn't his first run-in with us."
The words landed like a punch, stealing her breath. Not his first? How could she not know? She stood frozen, watching the car pull away, Ethan's silhouette shrinking in the back seat. David's hand lingered on her shoulder, but the house felt too quiet, too empty. Her mind churned, grasping for answers. When had Ethan changed? And why did everything—the kitchen, David's face, even her own hands—feel so wrong?