July 4th

She never knew police cars had such small back seats. Mackenzie’s knees ached from being jammed into the hard plastic that separated her from the cops up front. There was another black and white leading them around the pretty little streets of her neighborhood. The backseat was empty in the first car. At the stop sign Detective Smith twisted around and glanced through the bulletproof window.

“We’ll be there soon.”

Mackenzie already knew that. She knew these streets, this neighborhood. Her father had bought the beach house when she was born, and she spent the last sixteen summers listening to him telling her how lucky she was to spend two whole months on Cape Cod every year.

What she didn’t know was what would happen when they arrived. She didn’t know who would be there. And she didn’t know what they would find.

The first car pulled up to the house but the one Mac rode in stopped across the street. The home was surrounded by a rainbow garden of flowers, though she couldn’t differentiate the colors through the dusky light. The only discernable hue was the red and blue from the police car beacon swirling around and around, illuminating the white beach house, giving it a garish glow. She stared at the sign in front of the picket fence, transfixed.

“The Douglas Family” was painted in the center, vines and flowers encircling the words. Flickering, a bad home movie. Red, blue, red, blue.

Both officers got out of the car and hitched up their heavy belts weighed down with metal and bullets. The one who had driven opened Mac’s door – she couldn’t; there were no handles in the back seat – and leaned in.

“I’ll leave the windows open ‘cause it’s hot out, but you wait here while we go see. Got it?”

She nodded.

He slammed the door shut.

The questions she’d been trying to avoid now pounded in her head.

Could anything be done now?

Was it already too late?

Could she have done something to stop it?

And the one she feared most:

Was it all her fault?