Because that’s what this is, a powerless situation on our end. I’m a judge, and he’s a detective and we can’t do a damn thing except file a report and hope insurance covers it.
Noah shakes his head. “Remind me again why we can’t arrest stupidity.”
“Because if we could,” I say, “that house would be empty by morning.”
We both stare at the property as the music thumps under our feet and through our chest cavities. Faces peer out at us through windows, still laughing, still filming, still treating this like content for whatever social media hell they’re planning to upload to.
None of them understands how close they came tonight. How a split-second difference could have turned their stupid prank into vehicular manslaughter. Negligent homicide. Up to five counts.
“We’ll follow up tomorrow,” I say finally. “File a report. Get the video footage from the neighbors if any of them have security cameras. Find out which kid threw it.”
“And then?”
“And then I’ll make sure they all regret it.” I turn toward my car. “One way or another.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I didn’t spendfifteen years on the bench learning how to navigate the legal system just to let some punk kid get away with nearly killing my family.
I drive home slower than usual. Giving myself time to let the anger cool to something manageable. By the time I pull into our driveway, my hands are steady on the wheel.
Steady. Controlled. Exactly how a husband and father should be.
But underneath, I’m still furious.
I head inside and find that Lemon already has the twins down, and Lyla Nell has already been tucked in as well. She’s standing in the kitchen with tea she’s not drinking, staring at nothing.
I pull her against me, and I can feel her shaking.
“They’re kids,” she says into my chest. “They’re just stupid kids.”
“Stupid kids who could’ve killed you.”
“But they didn’t.”
“But they could have.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Lemon, they could have.”
She pulls back and sees something in my face that makes her go still. “Everett. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing that won’t stand up in court.” I kiss her forehead, breathe in the vanilla scent of her hair, remind myself she’s here. She’s safe. They’re all safe. “Get some sleep, Lemon. I’ll handle it.”
I mean it as comfort. But the look she gives me suggests she knows exactly what “handle it” means in my vocabulary.
And she’s not wrong.
NOAH
Iwatched as Everett’s taillights disappeared down the street.
Good. He needs to get home to Lottie and the kids. Make sure they’re okay. Make sure Lottie’s not still shaking from nearly losing control of a vehicle with three babies strapped inside because some punk thought throwing rocks at moving cars would make a great social media moment.
Lottie.
My chest tightens just thinking about what could’ve happened. That windshield crack—dead center, driver’s side—could’ve been so much worse. Glass could have exploded in her face. She could have lost control. Lost her life. The minivan could have easily flipped. I’ve worked enough accident scenes to know exactly how fast things can go from a stupid prank to a triple homicide.
And she’s not just anyone. She’s Lottie. She’s Everett’s wife now. But somewhere in the back of my mind, she’ll always be mine.
Which is why I’m not leaving.
Everett is moved to kill—I saw it in his face, the way his jawlocked when he saw that windshield. He’s got the self-control of a monk when he needs it, but underneath, he was ready to tear this place apart brick by brick. I don’t blame him. I feel the same way. But I already have one homicide to deal with tonight, and I’d rather not add Everett to my suspect list for murdering a deadbeat dad in sweatpants.
