Home Sweet Home Ch. 01

"What is the status of your current projects?"

"Fuck," Riley said to himself. He gestured for another panelist to begin, and Riley pondered his response the entire time. Debra had told him if asked, to not say he has writers block. Riley preferred the term creative constipation. Ever since Kelly turned his world upside down, he had not been able to write a single sentence. Part of this move was to create a change of scenery.

"Riley?" the second panelist asked, and Riley exhaled away from the microphone.

"I'm behind my usual schedule I admit. I've never been Stephen King or Michael Connelly fast, but you would have normally heard something by now. In truth, it's kind of a transitional time for my personal life right now," Riley said, and figured if he could not say he was constipated, just tell a different truth. "I just went through a divorce, and yeah. That's where my attention has been for the last year. My life has been court rooms and law offices. I can say however, Shattered Cross is starting production in a few months." The crowd liked that. "I have final cast approval, so unfortunately if it sucks it will be my fault."

The panel finished up with a few autographs and pictures. Not as many for Riley. No one brought his books because no one knew he was coming. He did take plenty of pictures and shake hands. He also declined a few offers for drinks and temptations from college freshmen. Riley felt that at thirty-seven, he was too old to behave like that, and too young to be that creepy.

--

The drive back home was fast without the traffic. Riley shut his car door and stretched his arms above his head. It was after midnight when he inserted his key into the lock, but felt it was already open. Riley tried to remember if he forgot to lock it. He took one step back and looked toward the garage and saw a car.

"The fuck?" Riley asked, and slowly pushed the door open. He took one soft step inside and reached for something to smash against an intruder's head. Mr. Aberdeen's cane would do.

Riley tiptoed to the kitchen, then back to the living room. He heard a creak from upstairs so pulled out his phone. He called the police and put it to his ear.

"What is your emergency?"

"Yeah um, I just got home, and I think someone is in my house," Riley said and leaned over the stairwell. The dispatcher asked for the address.

"Is there a sign of forced entry?"

"No, but my door is unlocked, and an unfamiliar car is in my driveway," Riley explained, and heard footsteps. "And I hear movement upstairs."

"We will send a car, please stay on the line until they arrive. I recommend leaving the home for the time being," the dispatcher said, and Riley said he would, but didn't. He walked up the stairs with the cane stretched out in front of him and the phone to his ear. When he reached the second-floor corridor, he heard a flush from the bathroom.

"Really mother fucker?" Riley thought he asked himself but said aloud.

"Sir?"

"Sorry, they're in my bathroom," Riley said, and watched the door open.

A woman turned off the light and looked dead at him and the cane in his hand. After a moment of shocked silence, she screamed and ran into the nearest room.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" Riley shouted.

"I'm calling the police! Get out!"

"I'm on the phone with them right now!"

"Howie!" the woman shouted and swung the door open. She held a sports trophy fully extended in both hands. She swiped it at the cane as she put her back to the wall to slide past him. "If you hurt him, I will kill you!"

"Hurt who you crazy bitch!?"

The woman threw the trophy at Riley, hitting him flush in the forehead. He swore and took a step back. His foot slipped off the top stair. He dropped the cane to catch the bannister, but he still cratered the drywall on the landing.

"Fuck!" Riley grunted as he saw blue lights from outside. Riley descended the stairs and ran to the door. Behind his car was a police cruiser and two uniformed officers.

"Sir, did you call us?" one asked.

"The officers are here," he said and hung up the phone. "Yeah that was me."

"Officers, oh thank god!" the woman said from behind him. She ran past him, dragging a child by the arm and hid behind the police. "This man broke in."

"What?" Riley asked, and the officers looked between the two of them.

"Sir, could you step over here?" one of the officers asked. To Riley, it looked like they were trying to separate the two of them. "What's going on?"

"I have no idea officer. I just got home, and that woman was here. Never seen her in my life," Riley explained.

"Sir, did you threaten her with a weapon?" the other officer asked.

"Someone broke into my house, I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, which was a cane," Riley said, and the other officer approached him.

"Could you come down to the station for questions?"

"Why?" Riley asked.

"Just to clear this up."

"We can do that right here. This is my house," Riley said.

"Let me see your ID," the man said, and Riley sighed, but cooperated. "This says Chicago."

"I moved here two weeks ago, and my license hasn't expired," Riley said, and the officer's partner whispered something Riley could not hear.

"Her ID says this is her residence."

"That's great and dandy. The deed of the property sure as shit doesn't," Riley said.

"Please calm down sir."

"Are you fucking serious? She breaks into my house, assaults me, and you are telling me to calm down?" Riley asked, and the cop reached for him. "What the fuck are you doing."

"You are under arrest for trespassing..."

"...unfucking believable," Riley said as they started reading Miranda and cuffing him. "Badge numbers. I want badge numbers."

"Do you understand your rights as they have been explained?"

"Badge, numbers."

"Two-Two-Two-Four," the officer said, and then escorted him to the squad car. "You got her?"

"I'll get a ride with another officer when they get here," the officer replied as Riley's head was pushed into the car.

--

The police tried to avoid giving Riley the ability to call his lawyer by claiming they hadn't booked him. After quickly explaining they were in fact required because they arrested him and had read Miranda, he was in fact entitled to his lawyer. The fact he knew something about the law visibly frustrated the police. Riley's phone call was Michael, who instructed him to refuse all interviews without him present, and to only say he will talk with his attorney present. For two hours, Riley waited in a small room with a desk against the wall and two chairs. Every fifteen minutes or so a police officer would come in and try to ask him a question, but Riley would refuse interview without his lawyer. One detective did not get that message and kept trying.

"I get it man. You met her, at a bar or something. You liked her..."

"...what the fuck are you talking about?" Riley interrupted.

"You went into that house. Maybe you didn't know what you were going to do. It was all instinct. Male instinct." This detective seriously believed a guy driving a Mercedes from Chicago came to the suburbs to sexually assault a random woman. Riley chanted to himself not to be sarcastic. Not to talk back. Give them nothing. Make them regret it later.

"You just had to have her," the detective said. A detective so fat he couldn't find his own dick in a line up. "I get it, man. Our desires get the best of us."

"If you had spent more time researching who owns that property, rather than going down this batshit rabbit hole, you'd be closer to getting that woman out of my fucking house," Riley said, and the detective blinks.

Riley could hear Michael arrive, and it sounded like the officers were trying to slow him down. Offering coffee and claiming Riley was in the bathroom. "I'll hold his dick then, move!" Michael threatened them with an obscure law and marched his way to the room. The detective asked to talk to Riley alone for a moment, but Michael was having none of it, and demanded he leave. Once the detective was gone, another cop tried to poke his head in. Michael whipped his head back and said, "Attorney client privilege," and slammed the door shut. "Why am I here."

"A woman broke into my house and they arrested me because her ID had that address, and my ID still has Chicago," Riley said, and Michael took the other chair.

"You talk?" Michael asked.

"Not much."

"What's not much?"

"What are you talking about, and I want my lawyer," Riley explained.

"I can work with that," Michael said and made a call while poking his head out the door. "You got a fax machine?"

--

Michael had one of his unfortunate paralegals go into the office after midnight to fax the police department all of Riley's proof of ownership of the property. Once it didn't come through immediately, Michael pulled the table the fax was on, away from the wall and plugged it back in. The police swore they didn't know it was unplugged, even though they literally read the number off the digital display a minute before.

Once faced with documentation, they had no choice but to release Riley. Riley was already planning on calling every news outlet who would cover it and suing. He was warned the woman may attempt an Adverse Possession Claim, but it would be fruitless. Especially because she assaulted him.

Michael drove Riley back to the house with a squad car following them and pulled onto the gravel driveway again. Riley immediately noticed his car was gone. She had his car towed.

Riley gave the police permission to enter, and ask she be removed. Riley heard screaming, cursing, and glass shattering. The woman was then dragged out, while the second officer was carrying her child.

"This is my fucking house!" she shouted at them, jumping and kicking her feet. She saw Riley and hissed at him. "You fucker! This is my house."

"Ma'am, it is not your house," the officer said, and the woman turned to him.

"This is my parents' house! Let me call them!" she shouted. Riley suddenly had an idea of who this was.

"Are your parent's Lilly and Cooper?" Riley asked, and she nodded her head like Riley was the idiot. "Your parents died over six months ago. I bought the house in a probate auction."

"What? Bullshit."

"Ma'am, he's telling the truth," the officer said, and she started to frantically look at everyone around her. "I'm sorry, but your parents died."

"No," she said. She started to cry while shaking her head. "No, no, no, no...nonononono."

"Mommy?" the boy said, and the officer stopped her from collapsing to the ground in tears.

As much as Riley wanted her to be hauled off to a cell while her son watches her have an emotional breakdown, he just could not commit to doing it. The scenario was a bizarre misunderstanding.

"I'm not pressing charges. Shit happens. Weird shit too," Riley said, and the police agreed to let her go, so long as she left immediately. The woman grabbed her son and left in her vehicle the moment she had collected herself enough to drive.

"Have a good morning sir," the officers said then entered their cars. Michael sat on the porch swing as the police drove down the driveway then turned onto the road.

"What just happened?" Michael asked.

"That woman was the previous owner's daughter. She didn't know her parents were dead," Riley said, and Michael tried his hardest not to laugh. "She lost her parents, they're dead, it's not funny."

"You want to file charges on the police?" Michael asked.

"You kidding?" Riley asked. Michael said he would begin drafting the paperwork when he got back to Chicago. They sat quietly for a moment, before Riley announced he was going to bed. He offered Michael a place to sleep, but he departed and began his drive back to the city.

Riley was too tired to assess the damage, so just fell back on his couch fully clothed and shut his eyes.

--

Knocking from the front door pulled Riley from his sleep. His eyes blinked to the ceiling, as his ears tried to listen for the reason he was awoken. The knock came again, and he peered over his shoulder to the door. Riley could make out a figure through the window, but nothing specific. After taking a moment to motivate himself to leave the couch, he walked to the door. He noticed the stained glass to the office was the shattering he heard last night.

Riley looked through the peephole, and saw it was the woman from last night. Taking in a few deep breaths, he opened the door, but kept the chain latched.

The two made prolonged eye contact, and Riley determined she was there for conversation, not violence.

"You want some coffee?" Riley asked, and she nodded in reply.

Riley undid the chain and invited the woman inside. She cautiously entered the house, not sure how to feel about being a guest in a home she strongly felt was her own. They both had to relent the situation was absurd.

"I don't have a Keurig. I drink coffee all day, so I brew pots. Might be a minute," Riley said as he dumped yesterday's filter in the trash.

"That's fine," she said, putting her purse on the counter nervously. "I'm sorry about the trophy."

"Don't be," Riley said as he scooped grounds. "Reality is stranger than fiction."

"Most of the furniture is the same," she said, and Riley looked around the living room. No wonder she thought her parents still lived here. "Why is that?"

"I didn't have much furniture when I moved in. My ex-wife took most of it in the divorce. I bought the estate, furniture came with it," Riley explained, and she nodded in understanding.

"I'm Matilda Aberdeen by the way. Tilly," she said. Riley turned on the coffee pot and then shook her hand.

"Riley Blake," he replied, and her eyebrows raised.

"Like the writer?"

"Yes." Being a writer is a lot different than being an actor. Not many authors would be recognized on the street.

"My son is a fan," she said, and Riley smiled.

"You let him read my books?" Riley asked. His violent books featuring demonic possession, exorcism, and mild eroticism.

"The graphic novel adaptation," she explained. He almost forgot that even existed. "I asked a friend who read the book, and she told me not child friendly. The graphic novel didn't have the sex."

"Good call," Riley said and leaned on the counter. "I didn't throw anything away unless it was blatantly trash. Anything I took out, I put in a storage unit. In case someone showed up."

"I'm sorry about your car," Tilly said. "I'll pay to get it out."

"Can I ask?" Riley inquired, and she did not know what about. "About your parents? How did you not know?"

Tilly looked away and paced around the living room as she thought about her response. How much should she tell him?

"My parents and I weren't really on speaking terms," she finally said after nearly a full minute. "I'm not proud. When I need help, I come home."

Riley formed her story in his head. She was a drifter who traveled place to place until she ran out of money. She would then come back to the only place she could go. Sometimes that could take over six months. In that time, no one knows where she is. At least, no one wants to put in the effort to find her. Riley had a theory this was not the first time she came home out of the blue.

"What's the plan now?" Riley asked.

"I don't know," Tilly admitted, and sat on the couch. Tilly came home because she needed help, and that help was no longer here. Where does she go now?

"Where's your son?" Riley asked.

"With an old friend. I wasn't sure about you," she said, and he agreed that was smart. This conversation could have easily devolved into something uncivilized. "What the fuck do I do now?"

"My appraiser estimated the stuff in storage is worth a few thousand. You can have it," Riley said, and she turned to him. "I was keeping it for a claimer anyway."

"It's technically yours though. Right?"

"I don't need the money."

"You think I do?" Tilly asked proudly.

"Something tells me, you do," Riley said, and her pride evaporated.

"Thanks," she said without looking at him.

"Where are you living right now?" Riley asked.

"It's my problem," Tilly said, then stood up to return to the kitchen. The coffee had finished, so Tilly opened a cabinet to find it not full of coffee mugs. None of her parent's mugs with the cats in Santa Claus hats. The collage of family photographs. That was the first time it truly felt like the house belonged to Riley.

"They're over here," Riley said as he pulled two cups out of a different cabinet. "Cream?"

"I like it black," she said. Riley poured her a cup and slid it across the counter to her.

"Where are you living?" Riley repeated.

"Not your problem," Tilly said. "It's probably hard for you to imagine something like this?"

"It's not," Riley said, took a sip with her eyebrows expressing disbelief. "I grew up poor, and even occasionally homeless. I was a welder for seven years before I published my first short story. I know the struggle. I don't experience it all that much anymore, but I know it. And I know it sucks worse with kids."

"Why are you asking?" Tilly asked.

"It's just me here, and this house is huge," Riley said, and she put her hand up.

"I don't need charity." False pride always annoyed Riley. She was perfectly okay with crashing her parents' house unannounced. There was always something less degrading about asking for help from people less inclined to shame you for it. People you could manipulate emotionally. Riley had learned to believe the real F-words were family and friends.

"How about a lease?" Riley asked and she put the cup down. "Whatever you can afford. I'll have my lawyer write it up. Month rent for deposit, label your food in the fridge."

"Storage unit?" she asked.

"Already said it was yours. Not part of this negotiation," Riley said.

"How much?"

"How much can you afford?" Riley asked.

"Right now? Like, fifty dollars," Tilly said. Riley shrugged, as if to say that was enough. He doubted she had enough money to get his car released. "Per room?"

"The entire upstairs. I won't use it," Riley said, and Tilly was not sure how to feel about the offer. Too good to be true was her thought.

"Can I think about it?" she asked. Moving in with a stranger less than twelve hours after you throw a trophy at his forehead; there was nothing normal about that.

"You already have a spare key," Riley said, and walked with his coffee to the office door. "I liked this door by the way." He said as he looked at the shattered stained glass littering the floor.

"Sorry," she said. "I did to."

"Clean this up, and get settled in," Riley said as he stepped around the glass and into his office. He looked at the bookshelves he needed to finish. Tools, he thought. He needed tools.

"I didn't say yes," Tilly said.

"You didn't say no either," Riley said.

Tilly relented, quietly displaying her acceptance of the offer by grabbing the broom and beginning to clean the glass off the floor.

--

The Ferry Grove Police department was in the heart of the village. Sharing a structure with the City Council, and across the swimming pool from the Community Center. Known by some officers as the Haunted Mansion, because the outside resembled the home of ghosts in horror novels. Being in the center of suburbia, it externally was inviting. Each house had a freshly mowed green lawns and the smiling faces of scrawny white children.

Deputy Chief of Field Operations Diana Jackson had never felt fully welcomed in her own town. Oddly enough, it wasn't because she was a black woman in a white community, or even a black woman in charge of something in a white community. No matter how long she had lived there, sixteen years that fall, she always felt like a foreigner. This was a place where people were born. Diana Jackson had to work for her place there, and everyone reminded her. People acted as if it were a small miracle someone like her could get that far. They meant no harm, but there was a potent tone deafness in the way people talked to her.