Sheriff Davis hooked his thumbs into his utility belt, sweeping his gaze across the masked crowd. "I'm going to need someone to explain exactly what is going on here," he demanded, his voice projecting clearly over the low rumble of the idling bikes.
The street became so profoundly quiet that the faint creak of the white house's settling porch sounded like a gunshot.
Baker slowly turned his head toward the white house. For a agonizing second, it seemed as though the words were caught in his throat. His thick fingers tightened around the grips of his handlebars, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure. His gaze darkened, unfocusing, as if he were no longer looking at the peeling white paint, but staring deep into a painful memory.
"We’re waiting for his brother," Baker finally replied. His voice was low, gravelly, and tightly controlled.
The neighbor in the faded blue shirt turned pale. He couldn't reconcile what he was seeing. He knew the family in that house. He knew the tragedies they had recently faced. He couldn't understand why this imposing, masked gang had descended upon a grieving home.
Unable to hold back his protective anger, the neighbor took a bold step forward. "Then why are all of you covering your faces?" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "Are you trying to scare them?"
The question hung in the humid air between them, acting as the final barrier before the absolute truth.