He pointed sharply at the black bag. "What's in that?"
She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. "Trash," she answered, or tried to. The word came out soft, tangled, and slurred.
Mercer frowned. "This isn't a dumping area," he stated.
Evelyn blinked, trying to process the uniform, the stance, the accusation. She took a tentative step forward. "I live here," she said, but the sentence didn't finish cleanly in her mind.
He stepped directly into her path, his hand resting near his belt. "Do not move," he said sharply.
Evelyn’s heart began to race. Her hands started to shake, and she clutched the garbage bag tighter against her chest. "I'm just... I always..." Her voice trailed off into the heavy air.
Mercer exhaled loudly, mistaking her cognitive delay for defiance.
"Ma'am, go ahead and put the bag down for me. We're going to talk. All right. I don't understand what this is about."
"I'm just taking my trash out," she whispered, her memory slipping further away under the stress.
"I hear you. Right now, I need you to set the bag down and turn around."
"For what? I ain't done nothing. This is my house."
"Ma'am, you match the description from a call we just got. We're going to sort it out, but I need you to cooperate."
"Do you live here?" Mercer pressed, his tone shifting from inquiry to authority, and finally, to impatience.
"Yes," Evelyn said, pausing before nodding again.
"What apartment?"
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her brain searched desperately for the number, but failed. "I... upstairs," she said finally, gesturing vaguely.