Outside Cotton’s house, a row of cars started up and slowly drove along the street: two squad cars, Carol and Phil’s Subaru, Friday’s Tercel, and Rossiter’s Impala.
“You ever hear the story about the boy who cried ‘wolf,’ Harry?” Rossiter asked. He didn’t look at Harry, who sat next to him. In handcuffs. Loosely attached.
“Sure, Rossiter,” Harry said. “In the end, there really was a wolf.”