“No,” I agree. “Not for Lottie. Not for the kids. Not with a killer on the loose and a pack of hoodlums who think a house full of babies is a good time.”
I pull into my driveway and park. We sit there for a second, engine idling, both of us staring straight ahead.
“We’re going to catch whoever killed Vivienne,” I say. “And we’re going to deal with those boys.”
Everett nods once. “We are.”
“Because if there’s one thing you and I aregood at,” I add, “it’s making sure people who think they can hurt our family learn they’ve made a serious mistake.”
He lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “And that they’ve ticked off the wrong two men.”
I kill the engine.
Across the street, Lottie laughs. It’s faint, muffled by walls and distance, but I would swear on a stack of Bibles I hear it anyway.
That’s the sound I want this town to be built on.
Not broken glass. Not eggs cracking against siding. Not the thud of a skillet against someone’s skull.
We climb out of the car and head our separate ways—a judge and a detective who’ve spent years in an uneasy alliance, doing what we’ve always done when it matters. Protecting our family.
And making sure anyone who threatens it regrets it.
EVERETT
Morning comes later than usual for me, which is a small mercy considering Lemon and I had a very nice night that more than made up for the disaster at the Pickens house yesterday evening.
I’m not elaborating. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, and a judge certainly doesn’t provide testimony about what happens in his own bedroom. But let’s just say I slept better than I have in weeks, and when I woke up with Lemon’s hair in my face and one of the twins using my ribs as a trampoline, I didn’t even mind.
Now it’s chaos o’clock—which, in our house, is any time between six a.m. and midnight.
I’ve already called and arranged for a professional cleaning service to come out this afternoon and power wash the dried eggs off both my property and Noah’s. The woman on the phone didn’t even blink when I explained the situation. Apparently, vandalism-by-poultry is more common than I thought. She quoted me a price that made me wince, but I’d pay triple if it meant erasing the evidence of teenage delinquency from my garage door.
“Lyla Nell, arms up,” Lemon says, wrestling our daughter into a pink T-shirt with a cartoon unicorn on it. “We’re going to be late for school.”
“I no late!” Lyla Nell protests, wriggling like a small, determined eel. “I da boss! Teacher say I da helper, Lottie!”
Lemon shoots me a look that’s equal parts pride and concern. “Everett, she’s been saying things like this all morning. Yesterday, she told me she organized the snack station and fixed the block area because it was all wrong.”
I button my shirt, miraculously free of baby spit-up for once, and crouch down to Lyla Nell’s level. She’s got Lemon’s sweet charm, Noah’s green eyes, and a personality that’s somehow more intense than both of theirs combined.
“Did you have fun listening to the teacher?” I ask.
“Teacher listens to me,” she says proudly as she jabs her thumb to her chest.
Lemon shakes her head. “Lyla Nell, did you boss the other kids around?”
“I big helper!” she insists with her tiny hands on her hips. “They not know what to do! So I has to show them!”
I bite back a smile and glance up at Lemon. “Don’t worry. She’s doing fine. She’s going to be commanding corporations one day. This isn’t a big deal.”
“She’s two,” Lemon says.
“Exactly. By the time she’s three, she’ll have a strategic plan and a business model.”
Lemon swats my shoulder, but she’s smiling.
Across the kitchen, Carlotta’s perched at the table in a silk robe that’s seen better decades, spooning yogurt into her mouth while Ozzy gurgles happily in his bouncer and Corbin gnaws on a teething ring like it personally offended him.
