Case file number two consists of the Pickens family saga. Vandalism, harassment, property damage. Poultry-based attacks, vandalism, dead fish, glitter bombs, deflated tires, magazine subscriptions, and, as of last night, spray-paintingSNITCHES GET STITCHESon Lottie’s bakery van. That case is solved; I just need a way to prove it.
I glance down at the photos spread across my desk. The van. The evidence of what happens when teenagers have access to a henhouse and poor judgment.The cracked windshield. Security footage that shows figures in masks, but nothing identifiable.
We have a motive. We have a pattern. We have everything except actual proof.
It’s eating at me.
Toby shifts under the desk, his tail thumping once against the floor. He knows when I’m frustrated, and I’m pretty sure he’s frustrated right along with me.
I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. Vivienne’s case is pretty straightforward—follow the money, follow the secrets, find the killer. We’re close. I can feel it.
The Pickens case is different. It’s personal. They’re targeting my family. And every time we try to hold them accountable, they slip through our fingers because Daryl Pickens is a coward, and his kid and hooligan friends know exactly how far they can push without crossing the line into something we can actually prosecute.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lottie.How’s itgoing?
Me:Slow. You?
Lottie:Lyla Nell just told Pancake he was fired from being a cat. I don’t know what that means.
Me:It means she’s your daughter.
Lottie:Fair point. See you later.
Me:Love you.
Lottie:Love you right back!
I set the phone down and stare at the files again.
Someone is going to break. With Vivienne’s case, it’s just a matter of finding the right pressure point. With those kids, it’s a matter of them getting cocky and making a mistake we can actually use.
Either way, I’m not letting this go.
I pull up Daryl Pickens’ background check, looking for something, anything, we can use.
And within two minutes—there it is.
I sit up a little straighter while scrolling through the results.
Outstanding warrants. Two of them. Failure to appear for a court date on an unpaid speeding ticket from 2023. Another for failure to pay child support from his first marriage—a detail I didn’t even know existed until now.
Unpaid fines totaling over eighteen thousand dollars. Traffic violations, court fees, and municipal violations that have been accumulating interest for years.
And the kicker? His license has been suspended for the past six months. Every time he jumps behind the wheel, he’s committing a crime.
“Gotcha,” I mutter.
Toby’s tail gives another thump.
I’m already drafting the email to the DA when a knock erupts at my door.
I look up to find Everett standing there looking judgmental, as he should in a suit and tie, along with an expression that suggests he’s about to ruin someone’s day in the most legal way possible. Here’s hoping it’s not mine.
“We need to talk,” he says.
Toby runs over to him and gives a soft bark, his tail wagging like mad, and Everett quickly gives the old boy a scratch between his ears. Some days, I’m convinced Toby prefers Everett to me. I guess Toby and Lottie have that in common.
“Come in,” I say, nodding to the chair across from my desk. “You look like you’ve got news.”
