Page 33 of Sweetly Yours

“No, I didn’t see anything,” I say, my voice shaking.

“And you haven’t touched anything inside?” Harris asks.

“I... I walked in,” I admit, guilt creeping in. “But I didn’t touch anything. I just—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s step back while we check it out.”

Denton gives me a small nod before heading toward the house, flashlight in hand. Harris stays with me, his steady presence keeping me anchored as I fidget with Frankie’s leash.

“Do you live alone?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, glancing toward the car where Frankie sits quietly in the passenger seat. “Just me and my dog.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to do this? Any recent arguments, threats, anything out of the ordinary?”

I shake my head, though the image of Tessa flashes in my mind. “No. I can’t think of anyone.”

Harris watches me closely, his sharp eyes searching my face. He doesn’t look fully convinced but doesn’t push. Before he can say more, Denton returns from the house.

“It’s clear,” Denton says, his tone brisk. “No one’s inside.”

Harris nods, turning back to me. “Alright, ma’am. We’ll need to take a statement. Can you tell us exactly what happened?”

I nod, hugging myself as I recount everything—finding the door open, calling 911, walking in, and seeing the damage.

As I talk, Denton snaps photos of the house while Harris listens intently, jotting down notes and occasionally asking questions.

“Do you have any security cameras?” Harris asks.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“What about valuables? Is anything missing?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, glancing toward the house. “I haven’t looked closely.”

“We’ll do a walkthrough with you in a minute,” Harris says. “But based on what we’ve seen so far, it looks more like vandalism than burglary.”

The wordvandalismsits uneasily in my chest, heavy and ominous. Someone wanted to send a message.

The process feels like it takes forever. By the time they finish taking photos, asking questions, and walking me through the damage, the reality of what’s happened starts to sink in.

I’ve been violated. Someone came into my home, ripped it apart, and left me to pick up the pieces.

And in all the chaos, I completely forgot to call Brock.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I grab my phone, swiping to his number.

Before I can press “call,” headlights sweep across the driveway, and my heart lurches.

It’s Brock.

He gets out of his truck, his tall frame moving quickly toward me, his face a mix of worry and anger.

“Willow,” he says, his voice low but sharp. “What the hell is going on? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I—I forgot,” I stammer, guilt flooding through me.

“You forgot?” he repeats, his dark eyes scanning me like he’s making sure I’m okay. “Jesus, Willow. I’ve been texting you for the last hour.”

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