Dad pulled up another photograph. A young man looked out from the screen. Nineteen, maybe. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Eyes I knew instantly because I had spent five years looking into their echo across dinner tables and in bed and in morning light.
“Alexander Vulov,” Dad said quietly. “David’s older brother.”
“He looks like him,” I whispered.
“Same eyes,” Dad said. “Same smile when David actually smiles.”
Carter added a second photo. Alexander at a football game in a Longhorns jersey, arm around a girl, looking young and ordinary and heartbreakingly alive.
“Business major. Junior year,” Dad said. “Girlfriend named Sarah. Volunteered at an animal shelter on weekends.”
His voice hollowed out.
“I didn’t know any of that when I shot him.”
I looked at him.
“Tell me exactly what happened. Not the report. The real version.”
Dad took a long breath.
“May fifteenth, 2009. Seven-thirty in the morning. We served the warrant at the dealership. Six officers. I was lead. We went through the front. Alexander was in the back office. He already had the Glock out. I shouted for him to drop it. He fired. Three shots.”
Carter spoke quietly.
“One of those shots hit Detective Marcus Webb in the shoulder.”
“I fired once,” Dad said. “Center mass.”
“He died before the ambulance arrived,” Carter said.
Dad closed his eyes.
