They turned onto the street and saw the police lights before they saw the house, red and blue washing across the parked cars and the manicured hedges of the Delacroix property, students spilling out onto the lawn in various states of panic, phones already up recording, someone crying near the mailbox.
Amara's heart stopped so completely for a second while Julian nearly forgot to put the car in park.
And then she saw her. Justina, standing near a cruiser, not in handcuffs, not crumpled on the ground, but upright, talking actually talking, calm and clear, to an officer with a notepad, her arms wrapped around herself against the night air but her chin level, steady.
"You really are a good child," the officer was saying as Amara and Julian approached, close enough now to hear it. "You should head home. We'll handle it from here."
