I just smiled. "Can't wait. I'll bring popcorn."
The patrol car pulled away, taking his friend with it. I stood there under the porch light, watching the whole circus fade into the dark.
Once they were gone, I filed a full report and emailed the security footage to my lawyer, just in case.
By midnight, word had already started spreading. A mutual friend texted, "Did Landon really try to break into your house?"
I sent back, "Yep. Cameras don't lie."
She replied with a single line that summed up the entire week. "Guess karma's faster than Wi-Fi."
That line was still echoing in my head when my phone buzzed again the next morning. Unknown number.
"Patrick?" a woman's voice said. "This is Doris, Minerva's mother."
Of course it was.
"I need to hear your side," she said, voice tight and formal. "Minerva's devastated. She says you humiliated her and called the police for no reason."
"Sure," I said. "You free to meet?"
That caught her off guard. "You actually want to talk?"
"Why not? Bring an open mind. I'll bring proof."
We met at a cafe downtown that afternoon. She was already there, sitting stiffly with her hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched. The second she saw me, she tried a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
"No problem." I put a folder on the table. "I brought receipts."
Her eyebrows twitched. "Receipts?"
I opened the folder and slid a few papers across. "Mortgage statements, utility bills, bank transfers." Then screenshots of texts from Minerva asking for money, saying she loved me, sending heart emojis, dated four days before the announcement.
Doris scanned them, lips pressing tighter every second. "She told us you two were separated," she muttered, "said that you'd been controlling and unstable."