"911. What's your emergency?"
"Home invasion in progress. 1,247 Maple Street, Willowbrook Estates. Suspect is still inside my house."
Trevor finally looked up from his treasure hunt. "Seriously? You're calling the cops? My mom's going to have your ass for this."
"Your mom's not here, genius, but the police will be in about 6 minutes."
That's when something shifted in Trevor's expression. For the first time in his privileged life, he was facing consequences that mommy couldn't fix with money or connections.
"You can't arrest me," he said, but his voice had lost that cocky confidence. "This is all a misunderstanding. I thought you were having a break-in, so I came to help."
"By ransacking my kitchen and stealing my documents?"
"I was looking for evidence of the real burglary."
The desperation in his voice was almost pathetic. Almost.
Blue lights started flashing through my windows. The cavalry had arrived.
"Willowbrook police. Anyone inside?"
"In the kitchen," I called out. "Homeowner Marcus Rodriguez. The burglar is still here."
Two officers entered with hands on their weapons, taking in the scene immediately. Destroyed kitchen, scattered papers, one very guilty-looking rich kid holding stolen documents.
"Sir, step away from those papers and put your hands where we can see them," Officer Martinez commanded.
Trevor's prep school arrogance made one final appearance. "Do you know who my mother is? She runs this entire neighborhood. You can't just—"
"Hands behind your back. Now."
The sound of handcuffs clicking shut was the most beautiful music I'd ever heard. 20 years of working with my hands, and I'd never heard anything more satisfying than those metal bracelets locking around Trevor's wrists.
"Trevor Ashworth, you're under arrest for breaking and entering, burglary in the first degree, and destruction of property. You have the right to remain silent."
"This is ridiculous!" Trevor screamed as they walked him toward the door. "My mom's going to sue all of you. She owns this place. You can't do this to me."
His voice echoed through the night air as they loaded him into the patrol car, still ranting about imaginary immunity and his mother's non-existent power over law enforcement.