Terry felt his control slipping as he watched this entitled shit try to intimidate officers who'd been working all night to clean up his mess. The kid…no… the prick was twenty-three years old…had no idea how much evidence they'd collected, how many witnesses they'd interviewed, or how serious the charges were going to be.
"Jeremy, Pete," Terry called out. "Make sure Mr. Whitman and his friends understand their rights again. I want everything by the book with these five."
As the crime scene began to wind down, Terry walked out onto the deck overlooking the bay, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and gold. The beauty of the morning felt almost obscene after the ugliness of the night, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd only scratched the surface of something much larger.
His phone had been buzzing periodically with text messages, but he'd been too busy to check them until now. Three messages from Sandra, each one making his chest tighten with guilt.
Hope everything's okay. Kids are asleep, I'm reading on the couch.
Still up if you need anything. Take care of yourself.
Be safe.
The last message had been sent four hours ago. Terry closed his eyes and tried to imagine explaining this to her—the all-night investigation, the entitled kids who thought money could buy them out of anything, and the frustration of knowing they'd uncovered something bigger but having to let half the suspects walk away because of procedural challenges and family connections.
But then she was an attorney who had interned with a district attorney’s office. She knew these scenes. She’d prosecuted caseslike this. It struck him that Patricia had never liked his career choices. She preferred sharp power suits, first-class flights, and happy hour after a long day of business deals.But Sandra?He knew she’d been in the legal trenches and would understand a lot of what he was going through.
Turning his mind back to the party, he knew this wasn’t just a party that got out of hand. The evidence was clear, but they didn’t know yet who’d brought the drugs. And the legal realities of dealing with wealthy families and their lawyers meant that justice would be complicated, delayed, and probably incomplete.
"Captain?" Jeremy approached, looking as exhausted as Terry felt. "Crime scene is cleared and evidence is logged and secured. What's the plan for follow-up?"
Terry took one last look at the sunrise, thinking about Sandra asleep on his couch and his kids safe in their beds, then straightened his shoulders and got back to work.
"We dig deeper. This wasn't just college kids partying. I want to know who’s behind it. But for now, go home.”
18
Sandra blinked open her eyes and stretched. Instantly realizing she wasn’t in her bed, she sat up to see Toby and Emma in the kitchen, whispering as they appeared to be getting out some pans while trying not to make noise. “Oh my goodness, guys! Don’t be quiet on my account.”
Sandra pushed herself up from the couch, her body protesting the awkward position she'd slept in. The throw blanket had twisted around her legs during the night, and she worked to untangle herself before shaking out the soft fabric. Her fingers smoothed the wrinkles as she draped it across the sofa's back.
"I hope we didn't wake you." Emma's voice carried genuine concern, her youthful face radiant with morning energy as she padded into the living room. “But Toby doesn’t know how to be quiet.”
Toby appeared behind his sister, his hair sticking up at odd angles. "Hey, I was hungry."
A warm laugh bubbled up from Sandra's chest. "You didn't wake me, and I'm hungry, too."
She hurried toward the powder room. The cool water helped to refresh her skin and wake her fully. She finger-combed hertousled hair back into a neat ponytail. The mirror reflected tired eyes and pillow creases on her cheek, but there was also a contentment she hadn't felt in a long time.
In the kitchen, Toby had already claimed the role of breakfast coordinator, a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread positioned on the counter like soldiers awaiting orders.
"Do you want some help?"
Toby glanced up, his eyes sparkling as he tapped his chin with deliberate drama. "What are your breakfast specialties?"
"Toby!" Emma's voice carried the exasperated tone of an older sister. "You shouldn't ask that. She's a guest and doesn't need to cook for us."
Toby whirled around, his expression indignant. "Well, she might be a guest, but if her breakfast is better than what we fix, then I'm all for letting a guest do some of the cooking."
Sandra's laughter filled the kitchen, genuine and unguarded. "I don't mind helping at all. And my breakfast specialties are world-famous French toast and?—"
"You've got the job!" Toby declared, his excitement obvious as he bounced on his toes. "I was just going to make toast with butter and jelly, but French toast is so much better!" His enthusiasm dimmed slightly as suspicion crept into his voice. "How do you know it's world famous?"
A bittersweet smile tugged at Sandra's lips. "That was what my grandmother always called it."
The memory wrapped around her in a familiar embrace as she heated the griddle. When visiting, she used to wake early just so she could help her grandmother in the kitchen. While the others slept in, she relished the time spent as the two talked about what was going on in Sandra’s life and her grandmother shared stories from her childhood. Shaking her head to clear the memories, she stepped up to the counter.
Emma worked beside her, the sausage patties sizzling under the broiler while Sandra whisked eggs with milk, vanilla, and cinnamon. The domestic scene felt natural in a way that surprised her.
