Everett is already moving through the crowd toward where Mom magically has the twins in their stroller and Lyla Nell perched on her hip. In a blur of events, Noah shuttles Carlotta and me out front while Everett loads everyone into the minivan with a ruthless efficiency you’d expect from someone who wrangles courtroom criminals for a living.
Carlotta climbs into the passenger seat, still muttering aboutDetective Long Legs and something about a banana hammock, too.
Everett appears at my window. “I’ve got my car here, I’ll follow you home.”
It’s not a question. It rarely is with him. And let’s be honest, I’m always here for any directions he likes to give, especially in the bedroom. Although right about now, I wish he hadn’t given any because I’d hate to think there might have been a clue I didn’t catch while I was being tossed out of the crime scene.
I pull out of Vivienne’s circular drive just as uniformed deputies swarm the property like ants at a particularly tragic picnic.
“I can’t believe they basically chased me off the property,” I growl. “I’m the one who found her. And I think we all know who’s going to solve this case.”
Lyla Nell claps in her car seat and sings bye-bye as she waves to the mansion in our wake.
Carlotta snorts my way. “To be fair, you do have a certain track record. At this point, you’re basically a mobile crime scene, Lot. We should get you one of thoseCaution: Wet Floorsigns, but for corpses.”
“I guess you know what to get me for Christmas,” I say as I spot Everett’s headlights behind us, steady and reassuring.
We drive through town listening to Lyla Nell humming and the boys cooing to themselves in a language I’m convinced they both fully understand. We’re about a block from home when I’m forced to slow down due to a cluster of teenage boys scattered across someone’s lawn as if a football game just let out. There might be fifty of them if there aren’t a hundred, and I’m half afraid one of them will dart out into the street in front of me.
Music thumps so loud the bass vibrates through the minivan’s floorboards, competing with my already frazzled nerves. Red Solo cups are scattered like confetti, each one of those boys has a hoodie pulled over their heads, and vapeclouds hang in the twilight air like a bona fide fogbank. This is quite the teen scene, and I’m guessing the party of the year.
“Looks like someone’s having a rager,” I say with a sigh as I wonder if I’ll be able to hear the thumping and bumping from my living room since my own home is practically a straight line up the hill as the crow flies.
Carlotta perks up. “Teenage boys and noise. Name a more iconic duo. I’ll wait.”
I’m about to respond with something witty about corpses and my presence when one of the boys winds up like he’s auditioning for the major leagues.
Within seconds, a projectile hits my windshield with a sharp CRACK.
I jerk the wheel reflexively, and my tires screech against the asphalt.
The minivan swerves hard, too hard, and suddenly we’re tilting, and everything is facing the wrong direction.
Carlotta and I scream in unison.
The twins wail from the backseat while Lyla Nell laughs with glee.
Everett’s horn blares behind us, loud and desperate.
And the last thing I think before everything goes sideways is that I really, really should have just stayed home and made cookies instead.
EVERETT
Islam on the brakes in haste and cut the engine as I jump out of my car.
“Lemon!”
The house in front of me is nothing but chaos as teenagers scatter across the lawn like shrapnel, red Solo cups litter every surface, and music pounds through the windows hard enough to rattle glass. But I couldn’t care less about that. What I do care about is that one of them just threw something at my wife’s windshield. One of these boys—and they’re all boys, I note—just endangered my family.
“Lemon?” I run to catch up with the minivan as it slows to a stop twenty yards ahead. She’s pulling over, and a spike of real fear hits me—she wouldn’t stop unless something was wrong.
The boys across the street are screaming now, slapping their thighs, stumbling over each other as they scatter like roaches when the lights come on. They’re laughing—high-pitched and manic, the kind of laughter that comes from adrenaline and stupidity and thinking consequences don’t apply to you.
I’m about to teach them otherwise—but not just yet.
“Lemon?” I shout again as I come upon the van, and the firstthing I see is the windshield—a spiderweb crack spreading from the impact point like frozen lightning. Right there. Center mass. Driver’s side.
Lemon looks pale, still gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. The twins are wailing in the back, Lyla Nell is clapping with glee, and Carlotta looks dumbstruck.
