A Diversion

The small, dimly lit living room at 431 Maple Street was thick with tension. The brown and orange wallpaper—once cheery in its retro charm—seemed oppressive in the muted evening light. Six people sat uneasily on the worn couches and chairs, their expressions wary. On the coffee table lay a small stack of uneaten cookies and a pitcher of untouched lemonade. No one was in the mood.

Bruce would be here any minute.

“He’s going to explode,” whispered Emily, the youngest of the group, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of her chair. Her bright green eyes flitted nervously toward the window. 

Margaret, her aunt, placed a comforting hand on Emily’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine. We’ll stick to the plan,” she said, her tone heavy with forced calm. She smoothed her gray skirt and glanced at her brother, Ronald, who was sitting stiffly on the sofa. “Right, Ron?”

Ronald didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened, and he fidgeted with his wedding ring. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes. We’re doing this for him. He needs to hear us out.” His eyes flicked to the door. 

There was a loud knock.

Everyone froze.

Then Aunt Carol stood and quickly crossed the room. Her hand trembled as she opened the door. Standing there, hulking and intense, was Bruce. 

He was dressed in a faded leather jacket that hung loose on his wiry frame, his black hair disheveled and his eyes glinting with suspicion. He scanned the room, and a smirk curved his lips. 

“Well, well,” Bruce drawled, stepping inside. “This looks like a cozy little gathering. What’s the occasion? Somebody’s birthday?” 

Margaret cleared her throat and stood. “It’s... it’s not a celebration, Bruce. Please, sit down.” She gestured toward the armchair in the center of the room. 

Bruce’s smirk deepened. He didn’t sit but instead walked slowly around the room, inspecting each person like a wolf assessing a pack of sheep. Emily shrank further into her seat, avoiding his gaze. Carol moved toward the corner of the room, close to the curtains.

“Is this what I think it is?” Bruce finally said, stopping dead center, his arms crossed. “An intervention?” He chuckled, a sound cold and joyless. “Wow, you really think this’ll fix me?”

“No one’s here to ‘fix’ you, Bruce,” Ronald said firmly, standing now. He was tall and broad, and for a second, his posture was as commanding as it had been in his years as a Little League coach. “We’re here because we love you. We’re worried about you.”

“Oh, is that right?” Bruce took a step forward. “You love me? You’re worried?” His tone dripped with mockery. “That’s why everyone looks scared to death, huh? What, do you think I’m going to hurt you?” His eyes narrowed, his voice rising with each word. “You think I’m a monster?”

“Nobody said that,” Margaret interjected, her hands raised defensively. “We just want to talk. To understand.”

Bruce snorted. He finally sat, leaning back and sprawling in the armchair with a calculated nonchalance. “Fine,” he said. “Talk. Let’s hear all about how worried you are. Enlighten me.”

There was a pause, thick and suffocating. Then Carol began hesitantly, her hands clenched in front of her. “We’ve seen… changes in you, Bruce. You’ve been angry. Distant.”

“And paranoid,” Emily blurted before immediately biting her lip.

Bruce’s head snapped toward her, and she recoiled. “Paranoid?” he repeated softly, venomously. “Maybe it’s because everyone’s out to get me. Maybe that’s not ‘paranoia.’ Maybe that’s just reality.”

“It’s not reality, Bruce!” Ronald’s voice cracked like a whip. He took a step closer. “It’s you seeing ghosts where there aren’t any. You’re pushing everyone away, shutting us out. And whatever it is you’re doing out there—” 

“I’m working,” Bruce interrupted, his tone icy. “Legally, if you must know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Ronald snapped. “You come home covered in God-knows-what at odd hours, you don’t tell anyone where you’ve been, you’re hostile at every turn—”

“Ron,” Margaret warned, stepping between her brother and Bruce. 

“No!” Ronald was breathing heavily now. “We’ve all tiptoed around it long enough. Something’s wrong with him, and he refuses to see it!”

The room erupted into heated voices, everyone speaking at once. Bruce laughed again, low and mocking, but his eyes darted to the windows, the door, the small gaps between family members. He was assessing escape routes. 

Carol noticed and quickly positioned herself near the doorway. “Bruce, calm down. We’re not here to attack you—”

“Sure feels like it,” Bruce growled. “You know what? I think I’m done here.” 

He made to stand, but Ronald stepped forward, blocking his way. 

“You’re not leaving,” Ronald said, his voice steel.

“And you’re going to stop me?” Bruce’s tone was dangerous. 

“Yes,” Ronald said, and it wasn’t a bluff. 

Margaret intervened, forcing herself between them. “Bruce, please,” she said, her voice softening. “We’re doing this because we care. Won’t you stay and talk a little longer? For me?” 

For a moment, Bruce seemed to hesitate. His jaw clenched, and his foot tapped erratically on the floor. 

Then he froze.

Outside, faint but growing louder, came the unmistakable wail of sirens. Flashing red-and-blue lights painted the windows in rapid strokes. This was far from your run-of-the-mill intervention. The Wagners had already talked to the police. This was merely a diversion, a tactic to hold Bruce there for as long as possible until the cops nabbed him.

Bruce shot to his feet. “What did you do?” he snarled.

“Bruce, sit down—” Margaret began.

“What. Did. You. Do?” Bruce shouted, his voice echoing through the house. He backed toward the window, his hand diving into his jacket pocket. 

“Bruce, stop!” Ronald yelled, his hands raised.

“Police!” a booming voice shouted from outside. “Bruce Wagner, come out with your hands up!” 

Bruce’s face contorted with rage and betrayal as realization dawned. His hand whipped from his jacket, holding—

“Bruce!” Emily screamed. 

But Bruce wasn’t holding a gun or a knife. His hand gripped an object that shone metallic in the light: a small, serrated multi-tool. 

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the door burst open, and armed officers swarmed the room, shouting commands. 

Bruce roared, an unearthly sound of rage, and raised the tool. But before he could lunge, a taser fired, and he dropped to the floor, convulsing. The family screamed as officers restrained him, cuffing his wrists behind his back. 

“This isn’t over!” Bruce yelled hoarsely as they dragged him upright. His eyes, wild and filled with fury, locked on Ronald. “You sold me out! You—”

The officers hauled him out, his voice fading as the door shut behind him.

For a moment, the family stood in stunned silence, the room unnaturally quiet after the chaos. Emily was trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks. Margaret sank onto the couch, head in her hands.

“He gave us no choice,” Ronald finally said, his voice hollow. 

No one responded.

The cookies on the table remained untouched. 

Weeks later, Bruce sat alone in an interrogation room at the county jail. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting harsh shadows on his gaunt face.

Across the table, a detective flipped through a folder. 

“You thought you were being clever,” the detective said, not looking up. “Moving product, keeping a low profile. But you left a trail, Bruce. People talk.”

Bruce glared at him, saying nothing.

“We have evidence tying you to the shipments, the drop locations, everything. You’re going away for a long time,” the detective continued. He slid a grainy photo across the table. “Recognize this?”

Bruce’s eyes darted to the photo. A warehouse. It was too blurry to see any detail, but it was enough. His face remained a mask, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.

The detective leaned forward. “Who are you working for, Bruce? You give me a name, and maybe we cut you a deal. Otherwise…” He sat back, tapping the folder. “This goes on record.”

Bruce finally spoke, his voice cold and steady. “I don’t talk to cops.”

The detective smirked. “Suit yourself.”

As he gathered his papers, Bruce’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

“See you soon,” he said cryptically, his voice barely above a whisper.

The detective frowned. “What?”

Bruce said nothing more as he was escorted back to his cell.

Because Bruce knew what the family didn’t. What the cops couldn’t. 

This wasn’t over. 

Not by a long shot.