“Let him up! This instant! For god’s sake, take your goddamn foot off of him, and let him up!” I pushed the cop who had his foot on Terrence’s neck, and he stepped back while the other one, the younger one, murmuring Now, miss, pulled me away. “I am Roxanne Granville. I live here! This is my place.”

“Well, you was about to be robbed, miss, and—”

“—He broke in,” said Charlie, waving a finger at Terrence. “I went in to stop him, and there was a fight and—”

“That’s ridiculous! Terrence! Oh, Terrence, what’s happened?” I knelt down on the porch. Blood from his nose dripped over the bright red slash on his lower lip. His eyes blazed with rage.

“You know this man?” asked the older cop, a laconic middle-aged white guy with crew-cut hair and heavy, dark jowls.

“Yes. He’s Terrence Dexter!” I stood up. “Take those cuffs off him immediately.”

The cop yanked Terrence to his feet. There were bloodstains on his shirt. My gaze was riveted to Terrence, whose face was a mask of cosmic pain. “We think this boy is a burglar. Your friend”—the first cop nodded toward Charlie—“tried to stop him, and your neighbors saw the fight and called us.”

The Wilburs, still holding fast to the barking setter, came up the stairs. “We saw a fight. Heard it too,” said Mrs. Wilbur.

“How could you! You know Terrence! You know—” But I did not go on, because of course they did know Terrence, and that was exactly why they’d called the cops. Bastards. I took a deep breath. I put my hand on Terrence’s arm, and to the older cop, I said clearly, slowly, “This man has every right to be here. He lives here.”

“He lives here?”

“Show him the key, Terrence. Terrence has a key. Undo his hands and he can show you his key!”

Terrence controlled his voice with difficulty. He spoke as though spitting pennies. “The key is on the desk. Or it was before the fight.”

“I insist you take those cuffs off him.”

“You show me the key, miss, and I’ll think about it.”