The sound hit first.
Before her sentence existed. Before she could formulate the thing she wanted to say to Veronica's flat-eyed assessment. A sound from beyond the garden walls, from the road beyond the estate, from multiple directions simultaneously.
Sirens.
Not one. Not a patrol car someone had called out of habit. The particular layered wall of sound that meant several vehicles, meant coordinated response, meant someone had decided this required a production.
Then the rotors.
Low and heavy, the throb of helicopter blades, approaching from the east and the south. More than one. The sound filled the afternoon and knocked the remaining birdsong out of it.
The pool water vibrated slightly.
Raven looked up.
Marga's face was — she looked at his face, then at Veronica's face, then at the garden walls, then back at Raven's face.
