Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 14: A Day in the Life of Maggie Winslow
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 14: A Day in the Life of Maggie Winslow - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa
Stacy’s left foot was tangled in her yoga pants, the fabric bunched around her ankle like an abandoned restraint. Her sports bra was shoved up over her chest, nipples exposed to the chilly air still lingering from the pre-dawn hour—but she didn’t care. Her nipples were hard and aching in the most delicious way, still wet from Maggie’s mouth, still tingling from attention that had been both reverent and filthy.
Maggie was between her legs now, kneeling awkwardly on the carpeted floor of the van like a woman on a mission. One hand gripped Stacy’s thigh, fingers digging into muscle she hadn’t realized was tense. The other was pulling her pretty pink panties to the side, exposing her smoothly shaven womanhood. Stacy couldn’t focus on anything except the heat of Maggie’s tongue and the slick, rhythmic motion that was carrying her up, up, up.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, her voice thin and breathy.
She let her head fall back against the bench seat. The ceiling of the van looked dirty. She didn’t care about that, although ordinarily she would make a mental note to clean it when she got home. It was 6:45 AM and she was getting eaten out by a woman—in public—in the parking lot of the goddamn gym.
She should’ve been horrified.
Instead, she was on the brink of an orgasm that felt like it had been waiting inside her since college.
Maybe longer.
Her fingers threaded through Maggie’s thick brown hair, pulling gently, guiding, needing. Her hips rolled without permission, seeking more friction, more contact, more everything.
Maggie moaned softly against her, and the vibration shot through her like electricity.
That did it.
Stacy came with a soft, guttural cry—desperate to stay quiet, terrified someone might see, but incapable of stopping the flood once it hit. Her body clenched, every muscle drawn taut, and then let go in a slow, rolling wave that left her gasping and half-laughing, half-crying.
“Jesus,” she breathed. “Fuck, Maggie...”
Maggie didn’t stop right away. She kept her tongue soft now, slow and teasing, dragging out the aftershocks until Stacy whimpered and twitched and finally pushed her away with trembling hands.
“I can’t,” she gasped, laughing now for real. “I’ll explode.”
Maggie lifted her head and smiled. Her lips and chin were wet. She looked smug, proud, and unbearably beautiful in the early morning light filtering through the fogged windows.
“I told you,” she said, voice husky. “I have what you need.”
“You do,” Stacy agreed, and pulled her lover up to her by her bare armpits. They were sweaty armpits. And that was what Stacy liked about them.
Maggie put her wet face against hers and rubbed it around a little. Their noses touched, their chins touched. Stacy smelled herself all over Maggie’s face. It turned her on incredibly. She attacked her with her mouth, kissing her, licking her lips and chin, sucking on her tongue, gathering every little bit of her own essence.
“Now it’s time to give me what I want,” Stacy whispered in her ear.
“What might that be?” Maggie asked coyly.
“Your pussy,” She breathed.
“I have one of those,” Maggie said with a giggle.
“I want to eat it,” she said. “You didn’t shower, did you?”
“No shower after my shift,” Maggie assured her. “As requested, you kinky little lezzie.”
Stacy flushed at her words. Nobody ever talked to her like that. Until now. And, in this context, it was pretty hot. “Take off your pants,” she breathed.
Maggie obliged, pushing them down and off, leaving her panties in place.
“Do it like I did you,” Maggie told her. “Pull my panties to the side and make me come.”
Stacy shuddered and dropped to her knees. She hooked her fingers into the lacy black panties and pulled them to the side, revealing a wet, flushed, beautiful pussy. Maggie had not shaved for a day or two. This was also by request. The odor of her was strong, powerful, very wet. It was fresh arousal with a day’s worth of feminine sweat in her most intimate spot. And it was the most erotic thing she had ever smelled in her life.
She buried her face between those legs, reveling in the taste and smell, entering her own personal heaven.
She made Maggie come in about five minutes. She wanted to keep going and give her another, but time was ticking. Meeting each other at the gym and fucking each other in her van was an ideal, seamless, simple rendezvous plan—the sordidness of it making it more exciting—but it came with an expiration time. She had to be home to shower up and take the kids to school. It was part of the routine.
They kissed softly for a few minutes and then disentangled their bodies from each other. Wordlessly, they got dressed and presentable, hair finger-combed, cheeks flushed but manageable. Stacy was still buzzing with afterglow and craving, not ready to let go of the moment.
“You wanna do this again tomorrow?” she asked, trying to keep it casual.
Maggie glanced over, lifting an eyebrow.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Stacy said. “Same time. Gym date. I can meet you here after your shift again. This was ... just really good. I don’t want to wait.”
Maggie smiled softly but shook her head. “You know you don’t usually come to the gym on Wednesdays.”
“I’ll just tell Preston I need to burn off a few more pounds before Christmas,” Stacy said, waving a hand. “He won’t question it. He loves that I go. It keeps me looking good on his arm at charity events.”
Maggie leaned against the door, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp. “That might be true. But it’s still a bad idea.”
Stacy blinked. “Why?”
“Because the number one rule in a situation like this,” Maggie said gently, “is don’t break the routine. Create no blips on the radar if you can avoid it. One blip might get ignored. Two, maybe even three. But when they start to stack up, that’s when someone starts paying attention.”
Stacy exhaled slowly, but her expression betrayed her disappointment.
Maggie reached out and brushed a thumb across her cheek. “The best way to put your mouth on my pussy undetected by your husband and the surrounding community,” she said, “is to not put those blips up in the first place.”
She kissed Stacy once, soft and slow.
“Go to the gym on Thursday morning,” she whispered. “Like you always do. And if you’re still up for it ... you can eat me out then.”
Stacy stared at her, heart thudding. “You’re evil.”
“I’m strategic,” Maggie replied, straightening up. “And strategic girls get the best orgasms.”
Stacy laughed quietly and nodded. “Fine. Thursday.”
Maggie opened the sliding door. Cold morning air rushed in. She paused, then leaned back in and kissed Stacy again—this time deeper, warmer, full of something that wasn’t quite lust but wasn’t just kindness either.
When they parted, Maggie hopped out and shut the door behind her with a casual slide. She adjusted her jacket, smoothed her ponytail, and walked back toward the gym like nothing had happened at all.
Stacy watched her go, one hand resting on her chest, her heart still racing.
Strategic.
God, that was hot.
Maggie let herself into the house through the garage, peeling off her hoodie and hanging it on the hook by the door. The kitchen was warm, filled with the scent of toasted bagels, eggs, and some kind of meat that wasn’t ham or pork—Scott’s signature breakfast vibe.
The kids were already bundled up in puffy jackets and rainbow-striped beanies, standing by the back door with juice boxes and bagels in hand.
“Shoes!” Scott barked at them.
“We have them!” one of them yelled back.
“On your feet, ” he clarified.
They groaned in stereo and dropped their bagels on the counter before scrambling to shove their little boots on. Maggie stepped aside to avoid the mini stampede, smirking as they clomped past her on the way out.
Scott followed them to the door and gave a quick, “Let’s move it, mofos. We’re on the clock.”
He opened the door and ushered them out, then turned back inside, closing it behind him.
And then he froze.
He sniffed the air.
And gave her that look.
Maggie lifted an eyebrow. “What?”
He stepped closer, sniffed again.
“You smell like ... sweat,” he said. “And sex. And ... something else I can’t place.” He snapped his fingers in a I-got-it manner. “The girls locker room in high school! That’s what you smell like. But in a hot way.”
Maggie flushed. “Oh my God, shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “It’s a very ... lesbian smell. Like, unmistakably.”
She groaned. “You’re the worst.”
He grinned. “I’m not complaining. You smell sexy. In a post-crime-scene, sexually satisfied kind of way.”
Maggie crossed her arms and gave him a deadpan look. “You are so weird.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, walking past her to snag the last half bagel from the counter. “You’re the one creeping back in here smelling like victory. I’m just appreciating the ambiance.”
She rolled her eyes. Then hesitated.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, softer now.
Scott paused, mid-bite. “Always.”
She shifted her weight a little, toeing off her shoes. “Is it weird that ... Stacy doesn’t want me to shower before we meet up? Like ... even after I’ve been working the streets all night?”
Scott blinked. Then set his bagel down.
“Wait—on purpose?”
Maggie nodded. “Yeah. Like ... she says she likes it. Wants it. She requested I forgo the post-shift shower.”
Scott let out a low whistle. “That is ... specific.”
“I know, right?” Maggie said. “At first I thought she was just trying to be polite about me not always smelling like lilacs and sunshine, but ... no. It’s intentional.”
He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Okay. So yes. That’s weird. But also—kinda hot.”
Maggie laughed, almost in relief. “Okay. Glad you said that because I think it’s hot too. I thought I was broken.”
“Nah,” Scott said, stepping closer. “That’s not broken. That’s advanced.”
He leaned in and gave her a quick sniff just beneath her jawline. “Yeah. That’s pure after-shift cop lesbian musk. Stacy’s not wrong.”
She shoved him, grinning. “You’re such a freak.”
He shrugged. “Takes one to know one. Besides, you’ve got that real-world funk. Like you earned it. Not some fake perfume from Sephora that says ‘I read Bitch Magazine once.’”
Maggie snorted. “You’re disgusting.”
“Am I?” He gave her a warm look. “Or am I just the only straight man on the block who truly appreciates lesbian post-coital aroma?”
She sighed dramatically and leaned against the counter. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m luckier than you know,” he said, and picked his bagel back up.
They stood in silence for a moment while he chewed, then he glanced back at her.
“So ... does she taste like girl’s gym socks too? Or just smell like them?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Fuck off, Dover.”
He winked. “That’s what I thought.”
Scott polished off the last bite of his bagel and wiped his fingers on a napkin. “By the way,” he said, “I checked the mail last night before bed. Nothing from the HOA.”
Maggie made a low, annoyed sound. “Fine. I’ll give Judith two more days. Then I start making phone calls.”
Scott smirked. “And if that doesn’t work?”
“I go knock on her fuckin’ door,” Maggie said flatly. “I’m not letting this shit go.”
Scott leaned against the counter, coffee mug in hand. “It’s good to see you so engaged in the community.”
She pointed at him. “Fuck off.”
He held up the mug in mock salute. “Just saying. You’ve got that fire in your eyes. It’s inspiring.”
“I’m taking that bitch down,” she said, eyes sharp. “And you’re gonna help me celebrate when I do.”
Scott grinned. “Deal. But I get to pick the victory pizza.”
Maggie didn’t respond right away. She was still thinking about the letter.
Her cop senses had started pinging two weeks ago, right around the time she received a glossy, oversized HOA mailer reminding residents about the upcoming Christmas lighting rules. The letterhead had caught her attention first—thick stock paper with an embossed crest and, unbelievably, a full-color portrait of Judith affixed to the top right corner, as if she were running for Governor or some shit like that.
It reeked of vanity. Of money spent not for the community, but for herself.
Maggie had seen it before—different arena, same pattern. People who used shared funds to elevate their own image usually didn’t stop there. If Judith was comfortable using HOA dues for letterhead and mailers that made her look important, what else was she spending it on?
She’d started digging.
From online records and publicly available documents, she’d easily pulled the HOA’s total revenue, a list of current board members, their mailing addresses, the bylaws, and the CC&Rs.
But no actual financial spreadsheets. No monthly expenditures. No itemized reports on where the money was going.
According to the bylaws, any homeowner within the HOA had the right to request copies of the financial statements by sending a written request to the board’s P.O. box. So she had done exactly that—thirteen days ago.
It was only the third letter she had written in her life, and the first as an adult. She even had to buy stamps, which pissed her off more than she’d admit. She hadn’t even known where to buy them. Turned out you could get them at the grocery store at the checkout.
But she’d done it. Legitimately. By the book.
And she’d been ignored.
That pissed her off too.
“What exactly do you think she’s embezzling?” Scott asked. He didn’t disbelieve that Judith would embezzle—in fact, he’d find it amazing if she wasn’t—but at what level were they talking? As a couple of county employees who routinely committed infraction-level white collar crime—AAA batteries from the supply room, pens, boxes of latex gloves, containers of hand sanitizer—were they simply the pot calling the kettle black? Or were they talking about some more serious misallocation of finances and/or resources?
“I don’t know,” she said. “It could be anything. That’s why I want to look at everything.”
“You’ll make a good detective someday,” Scott said.
“Fuck that,” she said. “I want to work the boat patrol out on Heritage Lake.”
“You go ahead and bid for that next cycle, Winslow,” he told her. “I think the least senior member of that detail has eighteen years on the job.”
“So I only got fifteen years to go then,” she said. “I’m gonna go upstairs and shower and then hit the rack. Will you make sure Christopher works on his book report when he gets home?”
“I’m on the motherfucker,” he assured her.
A minute later he was out the door with the kids. She went upstairs to wash the smell of Stacy from her body.
It was a bummer to say goodbye to it.
The women’s locker room always felt too bright at the start of shift. Maggie was sitting on the bench in her panties and socks, adjusting her Kevlar vest, while Boulder stood at the mirror checking her undercut and making sure her Taser cartridge was properly seated.
Carter, the new transfer from the jail, had just been assigned to District 1 Adam Watch after completing six months of patrol training down in South Hair—which was what the unincorporated shithole officially called South Heritage was called. She was already halfway dressed—duty pants up, vest strapped down, radio clipped. She didn’t say much, but she had that quiet competence that got noticed fast. Dark-skinned, fit, late twenties maybe. She had the posture of someone who could drop a guy twice her size if he stepped wrong—and rumor was, she already had. Twice.
“So,” Boulder said, breaking the silence as she peeled open a pack of gum, “what’s the deal with your love life, Winslow?”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I have a love life?”
Boulder popped the gum in her mouth and chewed with a grin. “Because you’re happy. You’re walking around like only someone who’s getting regular, non-self-propelled orgasms can look.”
Carter looked over, amused. “Is that the clinical measure now?”
Boulder pointed at Maggie. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Maggie rolled her eyes, pulling her boots on. “Fine. I’ve been seeing someone. But it’s not serious. Just a booty call thing.”
Boulder’s grin widened. “One of the neighborhood MILFs?”
Carter frowned a little. “Wait, what?”
Boulder turned toward her like a professor presenting a thesis. “Maggie lives with Dover. You know—Dover from the weekend watch?”
Carter nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve seen him around.”
“Right. They live together. Raise kids together. But here’s the twist—neither of them sucks dick.”
Carter’s eyes flicked to Maggie, watching for offense.
Maggie shrugged. “I lick clam. What can I do?”
Carter let out a low laugh. “Okay, then.”
She unclipped her phone from the locker shelf and tapped the screen. “I’ve tried that buffet a few times myself. Decided I only indulge out of town, though. Keeps the rumors down.”
“You married?” Maggie asked.
Carter nodded. “Yeah. He’s county. Drives a garbage truck. Met him back in college.”
“Wait—he has a degree and drives trash?” Boulder asked.
“English degree,” Carter said. “Wants to write a novel. And he probably will. His brain works that way. But for now, he makes more hauling cans than he ever would grading freshman papers.”
She turned the phone around. The photo showed a ridiculously fit Black man in a tank top, manning a smoker grill and flexing by accident.
Boulder leaned in. “Oh damn. That is not your average sanitation engineer.”
“He’s got a fan club at the dump,” Carter said dryly. “Some of the guys think he should model for those calendars.”
Boulder chewed her gum. “Is it true?”
Carter raised her eyebrows. “Is what true?”
“You know what I mean.”
Carter gave her a slow grin. “Let’s just say it’s true and leave it there.”
Boulder clapped once. “My imagination is on it.”
Maggie stood and pulled her uniform pants up, smirking. “You are completely unhinged, Boulder.”
“I contain multitudes,” Boulder said, grabbing her gear bag. “And most of them are horny.”
Roll call was its usual blur—eighteen patrol deputies in varying states of caffeination clustered into a windowless room with old carpet and newer chairs. The whiteboard listed the night’s sectors and staffing: District 1 Adam Watch was Maggie, Boulder, Carter, Mendez, Lee, Frazier, Bigelow, and Hernandez. A decent spread. No one weird. No one lazy.
Sergeant Rent ran the show for District 1. Short, pale, and shaped like an aggressively retired linebacker, he delivered the shift brief in his usual dry monotone—vehicle thefts trending up near the Highland Park edge, extra patrols requested by a councilmember’s wife in Sunbrook, don’t forget to activate your damn body cams, et cetera.
Lieutenant Valero sat in the back corner, arms folded across his chest, eyes sharp behind tired-looking glasses. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. As Watch Commander for all patrol units north of the Heritage River, he carried the kind of weight that didn’t need a megaphone.
Dispatch was already calling before the last seat scraped back.
There were calls pending—the magic words that meant: no time to sit around, go earn your taxpayer-funded salary.
Winslow and Bigelow got the first one: disturbance, domestic, verbal only, no weapons.
Pending for forty-five minutes. That meant it was either nothing or over.
They cleared the station and headed west in tandem. Maggie in the lead, Bigelow behind her. He was quiet but not unpleasant. Had a resting face that looked worried even when he wasn’t, which sometimes worked in his favor—people tended to calm down when the taller of the two cops looked like he didn’t want to be there.
By the time they arrived, the house was dark except for a porch light and the flicker of a TV in the living room window. The yelling had long since stopped. They knocked, waited, and eventually the door opened.
A woman in sweats and a headwrap stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight but not fresh-fired. “It’s fine now,” she said.
“We just need to make sure everyone’s okay,” Maggie said gently. “No one hurt?”
“No one’s hurt,” the woman said. “We’re good.”
Maggie nodded. “Mind if we come in real quick? Just want to lay eyes on everyone.”
The woman stepped aside.
Inside were four other people: her boyfriend (sitting stiff on the couch), a teenage cousin (on the stairs, arms crossed), an aunt (at the kitchen counter, clearly having chosen sides), and a younger cousin who kept glancing between everyone like he was trying to decode the vibes in real time.
Maggie did a quick visual—no visible injuries, no red eyes or puffed faces, no obvious drugs or bottles. She relaxed just a little.
And then she made a rookie move.
“So,” she said, a little too conversationally, “what were you two arguing about?”
The temperature in the room shifted. Barely. But it was there.
“He was being controlling,” the woman said.
“She was being secretive with her fuckin’ phone,” the man countered.
“I wasn’t being secretive.”
“You wouldn’t show me the texts.”
“Because it’s none of your fuckin’ business!”
“I live here!”
The aunt chimed in: “She can have her privacy.”
The cousin on the stairs: “Yeah, unless the bitch is cheating.”
“I wasn’t cheating!”
“You wouldn’t let him see your phone!”
“It’s my phone!”
Bigelow took a slow step backward.
Maggie fought the urge to sigh.
They spent the next twenty-five minutes de-escalating a fight that had already ended before they got there—and which she had accidentally rebooted with one poorly timed question.
Eventually it cooled off again. Everyone agreed to stay on separate sides of the house for the night. No one wanted a report. No one wanted to go to jail. No one wanted to admit who had called in the first place.
When they stepped back out onto the porch, Bigelow gave her a sidelong glance.
“Next time,” he said dryly, “we just ask if they’re okay and then leave.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I just stepped on my dick with that one.”
He smirked. “It happens.”
After that, she backed up Carter on a suspicious person call that turned out to be a homeless guy digging for recyclables. They ran his name, found no warrants, and let him carry on. She was then dispatched to take a victim report at Community Hospital, but before she got there, Lee, who had just stopped a vehicle for expired tags suddenly put out an 11-99 call. Officer needs immediate assistance. Norwood and Strong. Everyone in District 1 and District 2 headed that way, lights and sirens on, engines gunning, speedometers pegging close to 100 mph on county streets.
“I have two subjects in the vehicle at gunpoint,” Lee’s voice reported, calm, collected. “Gun visible in the vehicle.”
Maggie was the third backup unit to arrive. Carter rolled in right behind her. She got to point her pistol at a car for a few minutes while Lee ordered the two out, hands high, and then walked them backwards one by one to be taken into custody. The gun was recovered from the car. It wasn’t real. It was an exact replica of a Glock semi-auto. Even the little orange tip had been removed.
While Lee lectured the two non-rocket scientists on how his pistol was not fake and would actually fire .40 caliber bullets at you if you were to point that fake gun in my direction—or if you had even reached for it—Maggie made her leave. There was no reason for her to hang out. The two idiots would go to jail for the night and their car would be towed. None of that needed her assistance.
Maggie cleared the call and keyed up on the radio.
“12-Adam, you can put me back en route to that 242 at Community Hospital.”
There was a brief pause before Dispatch came back.
“Negative, 12-Adam. 13-Adam picked it up. You’re clear.”
Maggie smiled faintly as she clicked the mic off. 13-Adam was Frazier. He was currently boning one of the ER nurses at Community. She couldn’t pry that call away from him if she tried.
Not that she wanted to.
Taking assault reports in a hospital ER sucked ass. Nobody was ever ready. Everyone was always busy. Half the patients didn’t want to talk and the other half wanted to turn it into a civil lawsuit. Let Frazier deal with it.
She turned her cruiser south and just drove. Time for a little patrol. A little proactive policing instead of being sent from call to call to play marriage counselor or domestic bouncer.
She cruised slowly down Bonner, eyes scanning. Spotted two minor traffic violations—no front plate, a sketchy lane change—but neither driver looked like a dirtbag, and she wasn’t in the mood to ruin someone’s night over a fix-it ticket. Not unless they gave her a reason.
She kept rolling. Turned east. Let the streets take her where they wanted.
Soon, she found herself approaching the east entrance of Highland Park.
She smiled as she passed the faded gate sign. Highland Park—Est. 1959. Still riddled with gang etchings no matter how often the county buffed them out.
It had been a few weeks since she’d dragged one Bartholomew Winthrop the Third out of his mommy-and-daddy-funded Mustang in this very park.
That had been a fun night.
She smiled wider at the memory—at the shrieking, the flailing, the slurs, the perfect takedown. The fucking Time Out! And the cherry on top? The baggie of fentanyl tucked into his pocket like a little powdered gift.
She had no idea that Bartholomew Winthrop the Second had filed a complaint about that night—and that Sergeant Yamato had given him a little schooling of his own.
That part of the story hadn’t made it back to her yet.
She decided to roll through the park.
There was always something sketchy going on in this park at this time of night. It didn’t matter how many lights the county installed or how many times they trimmed the trees back—after dark, it became a different place. A hidden one.
She pulled into the east entrance and clicked off all her exterior lights—a feature available on the law enforcement package of the Tahoe. The screen dimmed automatically. Her dash went red. Now she was in ghost mode.
She crept forward slowly. Idle speed. One hand resting on the wheel, the other on her spotlight toggle—not that she used it yet. She liked the quiet roll. It felt like hunting. Or fishing. Letting the water tell you where the bite was.
But the bite wasn’t happening tonight.
She passed two homeless guys settling in under a picnic shelter, cocooned in tarps and layers of clothing. She recognized one of them—old guy with a cart full of aluminum cans—Trigger was his name. The other was new. She made a mental note, but kept rolling.
Technically, it was illegal to camp overnight in a county park. But no one wanted to go through the paperwork hell of arresting a homeless person and inventorying all their worldly possessions unless it was unavoidable. As long as they weren’t fighting, smoking meth, or waving dicks at joggers, they got left alone. And they knew that and regulated their behavior accordingly—most of the time.
She rolled deeper into the park.
The trees thickened. The roads narrowed. Her tires whispered over the pavement.
And then she saw it.
At the far end of the lot—the same isolated parking area where she’d met Bartholomew Winthrop the Third a few weeks back—sat two vehicles.
An old BMW, parked nose-in, with expensive wheels that didn’t match the body’s age.
And behind it, angled slightly toward the curb, a black Mustang.
She felt her pulse tick up. Just slightly.
Was he back?
She couldn’t quite see the plate yet. It was too dark. Her headlights were still off and the angle was all wrong. The BMW had someone in it—she could just barely make out a vague silhouette behind the wheel. No movement. Just ... waiting.
The Mustang was empty.
She rolled forward a little more. Silent. No spotlight. Just her eyes, adjusted to the dark.
As she got close enough to read the Mustang’s plate, recognition hit.
It was his.
BWIII.
Same car. Same plate.
Same dumbass, back at the scene of the crime.
She came to a stop and keyed her microphone. “Twelve-Adam to North.”
“Go ahead, Twelve-Adam.”
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