“You know,” Carlotta says, her eyes glinting with hints of something nefarious, “I heard through the grapevine—and bygrapevine, I mean I eavesdropped on you two last night—that Sexy and Foxy had quite the adventure at the Pickens house.”
“We don’t talk about that,” I say flatly.
“Oh, but we should.” She waves her spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Two grown men, one squad car, and a house full of teenage hooligans who laughed you right out the door. It’s like a bad cop show, except funnier because it’s real.”
“Carlotta,” Lemon warns.
“What? I’m just saying, if you two had let me come along, I could’ve handled it. I know how to deal with punk kids. You threaten their internet privileges. You tell them you’ll call their probation officer. You seduce the dad and then?—”
“No,” I cut in. “Absolutely not. We’re keeping this legal, safe and sane.”
“Legal is boring.”
“Legal keeps me employed and out of jail,” I counter.
“Details.”
Lemon finishes getting Lyla Nell dressed and moves on to the twins, efficiently changing Corbin’s diaper while I grab Ozzy and do the same. We’ve become a well-oiled machine of baby maintenance—pass the wipes, dodge the flailing legs, and celebrate when no one urinates mid-change.
“I still think,” Carlotta says, “that we should do something about those hooligans. Something memorable. Like fill their car with?—”
“Think legal, Carlotta,” Lemon sings.
“I didn’t even finish!”
“I don’t need you to,” she says. “The answer is no.”
“That’s a double no from me,” I concur.
She huffs and returns to her yogurt, muttering something about how the justice system is broken, and in her day, people solved problems with brass knuckles and charm.
I finish with Ozzy, pass him to Lemon, and grab my suit jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m going to checkthe front of the house. Make sure we didn’t get hit with anything else overnight.”
“Be careful,” Lemon says, bouncing Ozzy on her hip. “I wouldn’t put it past them to escalate.”
“Neither would I.”
I head for the front door, already mentally cataloging the things I need to accomplish today—court at nine, a meeting with the DA at eleven, a follow-up on the cleaning service, maybe swing by Noah’s later to coordinate next steps on the Pickens situation. But I should probably check to see if the front lawn has been set on fire.
I reach for the doorknob.
The door swings open.
And the world explodes into glitter.
I glance up to find an empty paint bucket rigged above the door, rocking back and forth, and what must have been several pounds of glitter dumped directly onto my head. It’s in my hair, coating my suit, filling my pockets, sticking to my eyelashes. I inhale and immediately regret it—glitter invades my mouth, my nose, maybe my lungs.
I stand there, frozen, covered head to toe in what appears to be craft-store-grade chaos in seventeen different shades of pink, purple, and blue.
Behind me, Lyla Nell shrieks with delight. “DADDY SPARKLY!”
She starts clapping and jumping, absolutely losing her mind with joy as if I’ve just performed the greatest magic trick in human history.
Carlotta appears in the doorway, takes one look at me, and doubles over laughing so hard that no sound comes out. When she finally catches her breath, she wipes tears from her eyes and wheezes.
I shake my head, big mistake, as glitter flies everywhere. “Do not. Say. A word.”
“Too late!” Carlotta cackles. “I’m saying all the words! Speaking of words, have you ever read those books where the vampires sparkle? Hey, Lot? I think Sexy here might have fangs!”
