Chapter Six

Weston

I sit back at my desk and pull out my phone, logging onto the security company’s app and checking the cameras inside the house again. For the fifth time. This hour. It’s not that I don’t trust Scarlet, it’s just…I don’t trust Scarlet.

She’s well aware of all the security measures I have in place at our house, and I haven’t given her the codes just yet. The only place she’s going today is the backyard with Jackson, and there’s no need to arm the house just to be outside.

The cameras aren’t at all nanny-cams and show the front, back, and side door, as well as one looking down the steps with a view of the foyer. I can just barely see Scarlet and Jackson in the backyard. She’s chasing him around with her arms outstretched, dragging one leg as she stumbles through the grass.

I can’t help but smile, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Jackson is currently obsessed with zombies and loves to be chased by them.

“Who are you sexting?” Officer John Wilson asks me as he passes by my desk on the way to his. 

Another officer laughs. “The day Dawson sexts is the day we bust an underground crime ring in Eastwood.”

“Fuck you,” I shoot back. The guys never back down from a chance to hassle me about my sex life, or technically lack thereof. “And don’t fucking jinx us.”

“Come on, don’t tell me you don’t wanna bust a crime ring?” Wilson goes on. He’s a good cop, got his degree in law enforcement from a community college, but has never been in combat. Not the way I have.

“It’d give us something to do,” I say with a chuckle. Movement flashes across the screen of my phone again, and I look down just in time to see Scarlet pull her sweatshirt over her head. She has a tank top on underneath, but I still feel like I just witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.

And fuck, I want to see it again.

A minute later, we’re called out to a domestic dispute, which is probably the most excitement we’ll see all day. I shouldn’t complain, though. Eastwood is a safe, small town, and I couldn’t think of a better place to raise my son. It’s not to say nothing bad ever happens here. Our biggest problem is drugs, and given the rural setting of many of our residents’ houses, we’ve shut down a surprising number of meth labs over the years.

Last year’s big bust was arresting Marty McMillian, Eastwood’s resident redneck, for threatening and harassing a gay couple. When we got to his house to take him in, hundreds of guns were laid out in his living room. Turns out he’d been stealing them for years and selling them on the black market.

We have a few burglaries and break-ins every year, but in my time on the force, I’ve yet to be called out to a murder. There was a body found two years ago, but it turned out to be a man from Newport who got drunk and stumbled his way into our township before passing out and succumbing to the elements.

It’s obvious what’s going on as soon as we pull up to the farmhouse. It’s the second time we’ve been out here in a month.

“Here we go again,” Wilson huffs and gets out of the squad car.

“Mr. Green,” I start and shut the driver’s side door. “I see you’ve been drinking again.”

“Drinking!” his wife shouts. “He’s been doing more than just drinking! Tell them, Earl, tell them what else you’ve been doing. Or who you been doing!” She’s holding a shotgun and has it pointed in his general direction. And I do mean general. Her hands are too shaky to take a clear shot.

The neighbors across the street are on their porch, and it looks like they’ve got popcorn. This is high-quality entertainment here.

“Put the gun down, Grace,” Wilson says, holding up his hand. “We’ll cart his ass back to the station.”

I really don’t want to put Mr. Green in the back of my car. He always ends up puking. But clearly, he’s going to be spending at least the day sleeping this off.

“You take him, and you keep him!” Grace, Mr. Green’s wife, pumps the shotgun.

“Come on now, Grace.” I go around and take Mr. Green’s wrist. If I can lead him away, Grace will start to diffuse. “You don’t want to come down to the station with us.”

“We’ll put you in the same cell,” Wilson goes on.

“Good!” Grace shrieks. “I’ll beat him. I’ll beat him to death this time!”

I wave my hand in the air, dismissing her. It’s the same old song and dance, and it happens two or three times a month. The Greens have a daughter, but she can’t be bothered with her parents anymore, not that I blame her. Mr. Green has been an unfaithful drunk for as long as I can remember.

I get Mr. Green around my car, and he doubles over and pukes on the grass. Score for me. I hate when we have to ride back to the station with a car full of vomit. I make sure he’s done before putting him in the back, and Wilson deals with Grace and her shotgun.

Just a typical day on the job…which makes me want to run for sheriff even more.

*

Owen: Getaway tonight. Drinks on the house.

Me: You always say that, yet I always end up paying my tab.

Dean: WHAT!? YOU’RE ACTUALLY GOING OUT?

Me: No.

Logan: Isn’t the hot nanny there?

Dean: I’m sure she is, and that’s why he’s not going out.

Owen: If I come over and misbehave, will she spank me?

Me: Grow the fuck up.

Dean: I take that to mean she’s as hot as her photo made her seem.

I roll my eyes, silencing my phone. Another slew of text messages come through that I ignore. My brothers and I have had an ongoing group text for years that we mostly use for hurling insults or sending crude GIFs to each other.

Putting my phone in the top drawer of my desk, I take care of the rest of the paperwork and grab a coffee from the breakroom. After leaving the Green residence, we had one minor car accident, teenagers trying to shoplift at one of the two gas stations in Eastwood, and ended the shift by helping Betty Perez round up her goats that broke out of their pasture.

I close the file and take it to Sergeant Lopez’s office, dropping it off on her desk. Sipping my coffee, I get my phone out to check on the house once more and see I have fifteen missed texts from my brothers and one from Mom. Knowing the texts in the group message Owen named Bros before hoes are most likely bullshit anyway, I ignore them for now and see what Mom had to say.

Assuming she’s asking about the nanny, her words almost take me by surprise. She wants to make sure I’m okay and not sad…and I have no idea why. Usually she’ll text me and ask me that same thing—in the exact same wording every time—when the subject of Daisy is brought up. But we haven’t talked about my almost ex-wife recently, nor is it our anniversary or any—oh shit.

Today is Daisy’s birthday. It wouldn’t have crossed my mind if Mom hadn’t texted me. I respond back to her, telling her I hadn’t even realized what day it is and yes, I’m fine. I put the phone down again, thinking that it’s time to move on from this and file the paperwork after all.