Dispatch On Speaker

On the wall monitor, red digital numbers ticked up in the corner of the frame: 15:04:12… 15:04:13…

Diane leaned her elbows on the limestone coping, floating in the turquoise pool. Her brother and the real-estate woman splashed near the shallow end. The white terrycloth towel, embroidered with his wife’s initials, lay draped across the vinyl chair.

Robert pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed speed dial.

“Emergency dispatch,” a neutral voice answered.

“This is Robert Lang at 842 Cedar Hills Drive,” Robert said, staring directly at the screen. “I have an active criminal break-in. Three people forced entry through a locked perimeter gate.”

“Are you in immediate physical danger, sir?”

“We are locked in the house,” Robert said, his tone steady and flat. “I am recording timestamped digital video right now. They cut a brass padlock with red bolt cutters. They are in my backyard.”

Owen’s thumb rolled the bottom hem of his jersey, thread snapping under his nail. “Tell them she threatened us,” he muttered.

“Quiet,” Robert said. “Let the call run.”

“Units are en route,” the operator said. “Stay inside until officers arrive.”

“Understood.” Robert laid the phone speaker-up on the granite counter.

Through the double-pane glass, Diane laughed. The sound didn’t penetrate the window, but her head tilted back as she raised a dripping hand to adjust her oversized sunglasses.

Owen stared at his knuckles, his breathing shallow. “I shouldn’t have let her in the first time.”

Robert reached over and pressed his palm against the back of Owen’s neck. “Look at me.”

Owen lifted his chin.

“She wanted a shouting match,” Robert said. “We’re giving her a record.”

Out on Cedar Hills Drive, a siren chirped twice, followed by the low rumble of a cruiser engine idling at the curb.

Red and blue emergency strobes bled through the front foyer glass.

High-top leather boots crunched against gravel past the snapped lock. Officer Lena Ortiz stepped through the side gate, her hand resting flat against her belt holster.

“Out of the water,” Ortiz said. Her voice was flat, dry as dust. “All three of you. Right now.”

Diane laughed, a loud sound that rattled off the glass sliding doors. “Lena, thank God you’re here. I was inspecting this non-compliant filter when Mr. Lang started filming us.”

She grabbed the stainless steel handrail and hauled herself up the limestone steps.

The blazing sun hit her shoulder first.

Where the pool water clung to her collarbone, a streak of bright color appeared. It did not wash away. It deepened. By the time both feet touched the hot deck, the liquid coating her arms, chest, and face turned a solid, neon cobalt blue.

Her two companions backed into the shadow of the cedar fence. Diane stood alone in the sunlight, her skin dyed the color of a blue jay’s wing from her hairline to her ankles.

“What is this?” Diane shrieked. She slapped at her chest, spreading the bright dye across her neck. Her palms left thick blue marks on her blue skin. “He poisoned the water! Officer, look at me! This is a chemical attack!”

Ortiz clicked her pen, her eyes scanning Diane from head to foot. She didn’t move back. “You’re on private property behind a cut padlock, Ms. Foster.”

“He sprayed me with something industrial!” Diane yelled, her smooth tone entirely gone. She raised her dripping, electric-blue hands. “Look at my face! I’m stained!”

“It’s an EPA-certified tracer salt,” Robert said from the sliding door. His hands remained deep in his pockets. “Harmless to human skin. It only reacts when exposed to direct sun.”

Diane looked down at her neon forearms, her mouth open. The bright blue dye sat on her skin like war paint, impossible to hide or deny.

Ortiz unclipped steel handcuffs from her belt. She took two deliberate steps across the limestone deck toward the bright blue woman.

Diane flinched backward, her shoulder sagging as her heavy canvas tote bag slipped off her wrist and dropped toward the flagstones.

The bag hit the deck hard enough to make Robert flinch inside the kitchen.