“Wait here,” I commanded, pushing past them, pushing past Charlie, who blathered at me about being finished with me, and coming to get his surfboard back because . . . I ignored him, and stepped into the house. Carnage everywhere: Pictures on the walls were all askew and the andirons lay abandoned on the floor, except for the one that had smashed the coffee table in half. Cushions were strewn about, and the place smelled of Scotch from a broken bottle. Terrence’s shirts lay splayed across the floor like lily pads on a sea of unrest. The desk chair was overturned, and the vase was broken, the flowers lying in a sodden clump on the floor beside the antique music box. No key in sight. Maybe he meant the kitchen table. I ran in there, eyes darting everywhere looking for that goddamned key. The chairs were upended and the radio had been pulled from the shelf, and the coffeepot had fallen off the stove and coffee was puddled on the floor. There was broken crockery and jagged bits of broken glass and the oven door gaping open, but where, where was the goddamned key? I went back out to the living room and thrashed through the mess where, beneath the framed snapshots on the floor, I saw a glint of brass.

I snatched that key up and ran back out to the porch. I put the key in the older cop’s hand. “This is the key. This is his home. Take those cuffs off of him.” Trembling, I turned to the Wilburs and screamed, “Get out of here! Get out and don’t ever come back!”

“Now, miss,” said the younger cop, a kid who still had acne scars. “No need to yell. Your neighbors was just thinking of you.” He nodded to the Wilburs, who had not moved, and to Charlie, who had smeared the blood from his nose across his cheek. “Everyone was thinking of you, miss, trying to keep your place safe. That’s all.” At a nod from the older cop, he unlocked the handcuffs on Terrence.

“Yes,” Terrence growled through clenched teeth. “That’s all.”

“So . . .” the older cop said dubiously, “you two married?”

“No.”

“He’s your boy-friend?” He put unfortunate emphasis on boy.

Before I could answer, Terrence grabbed my shoulders, turned me around to face him, and brought his bloodied lips down to mine, kissing me, his tongue seeking mine, kissed me with the kind of passion that in other circumstances would have had my skirts up instantly, except this was not an expression of love or even lust. This kiss was a slap. An act of ownership, as though I were property to be disposed of however he liked. In front of these cops, and at the expense of my own pride, I let him do that to me.

“I’ll be goddamned,” said the older cop.

“Shit,” said Charlie, going gray. “Jesus.”