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His face changed.
“It wasn’t disarmed until I opened the back door.”
Nobody spoke.
I stared at him. “But my phone was outside.”
“I know.”
“Inside the woods.”
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
Riot took the phone from him and checked the log himself.
“No exterior door opened while it was armed?” he asked.
“Nothing in the log.”
Riot looked toward the hallway.
“Then we check everything again.”
Dad nodded once. “Every inch.”
Riot handed the phone back.
No one said anything for several seconds.
That wasn’t the end of it.
They checked every exterior door again. Deadbolts. Frames. Locks. Nothing loose, damaged or forced.
Then the windows.
Every one was closed and latched. Screens seated where they belonged. No broken glass. No bent frames.
They spent the longest at mine.
Dad ran his fingers around the window and screen while Riot checked the bars. He wrapped both hands around one and hauled hard enough to make the frame creak.
Nothing moved.
They checked every screw and bracket with flashlights. No fresh marks. Nothing loosened. Nothing bent.
Even with the window standing wide open, a man wasn’t getting through those bars.
Dad checked the attic. Riot went through the closets again. They checked the shower, under every bed, every storage space big enough to hold a human body.
Nothing.
Then they went outside.
Gates still secured. Fence intact. No damaged boards. No torn wire. No trampled route through the side yard they trusted.
Dad and Riot went back to the place where they had found my phone and worked outward from it, flashlights sweeping slowly over grass and dirt.
No footprints they trusted.
