But right now, I’m not satisfied just walking away and letting these punks think they got away with something.
Not happening.
I turn back toward the house. The music is still thumping, boys are still visible through windows, darting around and laughing like they’ve just gotten away with the crime of the century. The front lawn looks like a frat party threw up—crushed soda cans, red plastic cups, someone’s shoe inexplicably sitting in the middle of the driveway.
Parenting at its finest.
I mount the steps and pound on the door. Three hard slams that rattle the frame.
“Detective Fox! Open up!”
The response is immediate—screams, laughter, the sound of feet scrambling. The door swings open, and I catch a glimpse of a kid’s face, eyes wide, before he bolts deeper into the house like I’m the Grim Reaper who’s come to collect.
“Daryl!” I call into the house, letting my voice carry over the bass currently testing the infrastructure of the walls. “We need to talk!”
More scuffling. More laughter. A crash that sounds like someone just knocked over a crystal vase.
Daryl appears in the doorway, and this time he’s upgraded his props. Pizza slice in one hand—pepperoni, grease dripping onto his already stained sweatpants—beer in the other, and an expression that could curdle milk.
The smell hits me as soon as he opens the door wider. Stale beer, old pizza, teenage boy funk, and something else—weed,maybe, or just the general odor of a house where no one has bothered to open a window in three days. The living room behind him is a disaster zone. Empty pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, crushed cans everywhere, a gaming console still running on the TV with some first-person shooter frozen mid-explosion.
This is what supervision looks like in the Pickens household.
“What now?” Daryl’s voice has lost any pretense of civility. He’s glaring at me like I’m the problem here. Like I’m the one who just endangered two women and three children.
“I need the names of all the kids in this house.”
He takes a bite of pizza. Chews slowly. Swallows. Takes a pull from his beer. The whole time he’s staring at me like I just asked him to solve a differential equation.
“I don’t know any of these kids’ names.”
I let that hang in the air for a second.
He doesn’t know their names.
There are at least two dozen teenage boys currently occupying his house—his house that he’s supposedly supervising—and he doesn’t know a single one of their names. Not one. He can’t point to a kid and say, “that’s Simon from down the street” or “that’s my son’s friend from school.” Nothing. I’m not buying it.
I’ve seen some questionable parenting in my years on the force, but this might take the cake. And judging by the pizza boxes, he takes the pizza, too.
“You don’t know their names,” I repeat, just to make sure I heard him right.
“Nope.” He says it with the kind of pride that suggests he thinks this is a reasonable answer. “They’re my kid’s friends. Not mine.”
Right. Because when you’re watching kids—sorry, being physically present in the same building as kids—learning their namesis optional.
I wonder what Tammy would think about this. I wonder if she knows her husband’s idea of childcare is sitting on the couch playing video games while a dozen strangers throw rocks at passing cars. Somehow, I doubt it.
“Then I’ll get the names myself.” I step inside before he can block me. “Kids! Line up!”
The reaction is immediate. Boys pop out from behind furniture, peek around corners, materialize from rooms I didn’t even know existed. They’re all staring at me with varying degrees of fear, amusement, and teenage bravado.
Daryl’s face goes purple. “Dude. You are embarrassing me and my kid.”
Dude?
“You just called a law enforcement officerdudewhile that officer is conducting an investigation in your home.”
The look he gives me is pure venom. A look that saysyou’re going to pay for this.Like he’s already planning how to make my life difficult. Maybe file a complaint. Maybe call his cousin, who knows a guy who knows a guy. Whatever revenge fantasy he’s cooking up in that beer-soaked brain of his has already taken flight.
