They dragged me out into the cold night. The street was blocked by black SUVs with flashing red and blue lights. A helicopter circled overhead, its spotlight illuminating the house like a crime scene.
Sylvia was being dragged away in handcuffs, still in her festive velvet dress, now torn to shreds. She was screaming for her rights.
They put me in the ambulance.
A black city car screeched to a halt right next to the ambulance. The back door swung open.
My father got out.
He was wearing a trench coat over his pajamas. He looked older than I remembered, but his gaze was fierce.
“Ana!”
He rushed to the stretcher. He grabbed my hand. Tears streamed down his face, the face that used to terrify politicians.
