Oliver smiled—a real smile, the first one since the patrol car had appeared. "She should. You earned it."
Then Thompson turned to Karen. The shift in his expression was subtle, but unmistakable: the professional warmth he'd shown Oliver hardened into something colder—the kind of face a man makes when he realizes he's been used.
"Ma'am," his voice was flat. "You reported a private family wedding as a safety threat. You described these guests as people who don't belong in this neighborhood."
Karen opened her mouth; nothing came out.
"Filing a false police report is a misdemeanor in the state of South Carolina. You should be aware of that."
Ruiz added, quieter: "We'll be including the 911 recording in our report, ma'am."
Karen took a step backward, then another. Her heel caught the edge of her own lawn; she stumbled, not hard enough to fall, but enough to lose the posture she had held all evening—the posture of a woman who owned the street, the posture of a woman who decided who belonged and who didn't.
She turned and walked back toward her house: no parting shot, no final word, just the sound of slippers shuffling across grass and a screen door closing behind her.
The backyard was silent for three long seconds. Then someone clapped: one person, then two, then ten, then all eighty.
Oliver walked back to Denise. She was shaking. He took both her hands.
"Now," he said, "where were we?"
Denise laughed. It was the kind of laugh that breaks through tears: messy, loud, uncontrollable. "You were about to cut the cake," she said.
"Then let's cut the cake."
The music came back on. The guests exhaled. Harold sat down and pressed his handkerchief to his face. Grace squeezed his shoulder and whispered, "It's over, baby. It's over."