For a second, we just stand there.
“Well,” Everett says finally. “That went great.”
“On a scale of one to ten,” I say, “I’d give it awe didn’t end up on the six o’clocknews,so… five?”
He huffs out something that might be a laugh and might be a growl. “We’re not done.”
“No,” I agree. “We’re not.”
We head back to the squad car. The street is quiet, the only light coming from porch lamps and the faint glow of televisions behind curtains. My own house is a few blocks over, sitting there glowing warmly in my imagination like the promised land.
I slide behind the wheel and start the engine as we pull away from the curb in silence.
After a minute, Everett blows out a breath. “I’m hiring someone,” he says.
“A hitman?” I’m only partially teasing. “Because I know a guy who knows a guy.”
“Funny.” He stares out the window. “To clean the eggs off the houses. Yours, mine, the entire town if it needs it. I don’t want Lemon to even think about getting on a ladder, scrubbing that garbage off while she’s juggling babies and ghosts.”
“Agreed.” I grimace. “I barely got the stuff off my car. I had to go through the car wash six times. I’m pretty sure they flagged my license plate as obsessive.”
“You are obsessive,” he says.
“You’re one to talk.”
Another beat of silence, the good kind this time.
“This is ridiculous,” Everett says, shaking his head. “Two grown men. Careers. Degrees. Firearms training. And somehow the big villain of the week is a fifteen-year-old with a social media addiction and access to the egg aisle.”
“You forgot the cast-iron skillet killer,” I remind him.
“Right.” He rubs at his jaw. “Someone murdered Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke in cold blood, and instead of focusing solely on that, we’re running neighborhood watch on a pack of feral youth.”
I shrug. “It’s the one thing we agree on.”
He looks at me. “The killer?”
“The fact that teenagers are the worst,” I say. “This is apparently our common ground. Murderers and minors.”
A reluctant smile pulls at his mouth. “I’ll admit,” he says, “there’s a certain camaraderie in mutual disdain of young criminals.”
“See?” I say. “We’re basically bonding.”
“Don’t push it.”
We turn onto our street, and the sight of Lottie’s house makes something in my chest ease. Lights glow in the front windows, warm and golden. The porch light spills over the steps. Her minivan is in the driveway, Everett’s car sitting right next to it. Domestic chaos, neatly contained.
“All is right with the world,” I say before I can stop myself.
Everett follows my gaze. His features soften in a way he’d deny under oath. “For now,” he says.
We slow as we pass her place. Through the living room window, I catch a glimpse of movement, Lottie crossing the room with one of the twins on her hip, the other in a bouncer on the floor, Lyla Nell darting past with something bright in her hands, most likely contraband glitter.
The world shrinks, for a moment, into that rectangle of light. That woman. Those kids. That life.
And then it expands again, back into all the dark and dangerous corners I know too well.
“This town isn’t as safe as it should be,” Everett says quietly.
