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trumped-up bullshit charges, then they’ll sure as hell do the same to you.  We’ve got to fight this.  I’ve got to be publicly exonerated.  Take fingerprints from the crime scene.  You won’t find my prints there.  Look for any sort of clues the intruders may have left.  A dropped glove, a hair follicle, anything.  There’s got to be something that we can use to catch the real perps.”
    “You’re grasping at straws, Bruce.  The mob doesn’t drop gloves, and they’ve worn hairnets under their masks for years.  We aren’t dealing with amateurs.”
    “At least sweep the place for prints.  At minimum, I want it made known that my prints weren’t found there.”
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    As he remembered the night Richard had stopped by to investigate, Bruce had an eerie epiphany at Stop and Go.  Was there a connection between the message found on Sara’s wall and Gabe’s threat to get him his boy?
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    As Richard had suspected, Bruce’s fingerprints weren’t found at Sara’s condo.  Nothing, other than his last name, linked Bruce to the break-in and the dead dog.  For her part, Sara became even more adamant against Bruce adopting August.  Two days after her home was ransacked and twelve days before Bruce would lose in court, she’d paid the Hudsons an unofficial visit.        
    “So, you think being a D.A. makes you immune to prosecution?  Is that it, you son of a bitch?” Sara stated more than she asked.  Standing in the Hudsons’ open doorway and refusing to come inside and stop yelling, she continued:    
    “You can forget about adoption.  You can also forget about becoming a foster parent.  In fact, asshole, I wouldn’t even try out for Big Brothers and Big Sisters if I were you.  I’ve alerted every case worker in this city, and you’ll never get within a hundred yards of a child.  I don’t know what your deal is or who you think you are, but you aren’t going to scare me into going along to get along.  I don’t play that way.”
    Bruce had been expecting this visit, ever since he’d learned that his name was spelled out on her wall with dog blood.  He remained calm and quiet, allowing Sara to process her anger.  Trying to reason with a person this angry would only make matters worse.  There was no stopping this: she was too heated.  Like a hapless coastal resident waiting out a hurricane, he braced himself for more.
    “And what kind of sick perv kills an animal to get revenge?   I can’t imagine how cold-hearted you’d have to be to do something that chilling.”  The thought of Bruce doing something that chilling suddenly gave her pause.  Perhaps , she quickly thought, he’s a psychopath, and it’s dangerous to yell at him.   She clenched her eyes and shook an accusatory finger at him, trying to erase the dog’s image.
    “I understand that you’re upset,” was all he could offer before she began again.
    “You’re damn right I’m upset!” she shouted, concluding that, even if he was a psychopath, she should stand her ground.  “So why don’t I break into your place and scatter your shit everywhere, since that seems to be way we’re supposed to handle things when we’re upset.”
    “Leave!” Martha demanded.
    “Oh, so now I’m just supposed to…”
    “I said leave and I meant it.  I’ve had enough of you harassing my husband.  You won’t listen to his side, you keep interrupting, and you’ve used quite enough foul language, thank you very much.  Leave, or I’ll call the cops.”
    Sara glared.  She knew she was bested.  If the cops were called, she’d have a hard time explaining her behavior to her supervisor.  She wasn’t on the clock, but social workers were routinely let go for problems in their private lives… drinking problems, gambling problems, whatever.  Having “issues” did nothing for a social worker’s reputation. Having a cop called