Chapter 25: Rally ‘round the Family (With a Pocket Full of Shells)

Maggie stretched out on her back, the sheets kicked halfway down, skin still damp from the rather pleasant ride they’d just finished. Her body was flushed and loose. She gave him a sideways grin, still catching her breath.

Scott laughed softly and brushed his lips against her temple. “I’ll try to keep the syllabus interesting.”

“That’s the least you can do,” she said, rolling onto her side and letting him settle in behind her. His arm slid around her waist, heavy and warm, and within minutes his breathing evened out. Scott always did that—out like a light, as if the world itself switched off once he had her in his arms.

She slipped under easily, her body sinking into the mattress, her breathing long and even. These days she slept best with Scott in the bed beside her—no restlessness, no tossing, no drifting half-awake. Just real, solid sleep.

The steady beeping of his phone alarm cut through at 13:30. Scott reached across the nightstand and thumbed it silent before the sound could fully rouse her. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Maggie blinked against the dim light. “Why are you getting up? It’s my day to get the kids.”

“I’ll grab them,” he said, stretching, his voice rough with sleep. “Figure I’ll take them straight out to Harrigan Lake. Good flying weather—bright, sunny, barely a breeze. We’ll test the drone and wear them out a little.”

Her mouth curved into a smile as she pulled the sheet higher. “That’s sweet. They’ll like that.”

“I’ll feed them a snack when we get there, order a pizza on the way home. You can sleep in peace.”

“That,” she said, her eyes already closing again, “sounds like heaven.”

Scott kissed her and headed for the shower. He scrubbed away the scent of their bodies and dressed, moving easily through the familiar routine. By now half his stuff lived in here—razor, toothbrush, deodorant, boxers in the drawer, shirts in the closet. He didn’t even think about it anymore.

Before leaving, he wiped the spots from the mirror, scooped the damp towels off the floor, and tossed Maggie’s sweatshirt from the chair into the hamper. Maggie was a slob—always had been—but she was a slob he loved. And that made it easy to let it pass.

He glanced once more at her sleeping form, then slipped out the door.

He made three sandwiches out of the leftover meatloaf from the other night (no cheese on Christopher’s—he was maybe not truly human) and packed them in a Tupperware container. He added three bottles of Sprite—a few and far between treat for both kids—and three bags of salt and vinegar kettle-cooked chips. All of this he put into a travel Igloo with some reusable ice packs that lived in the freezer. Once packed, he carried it out to the Tacoma.

The drone was theoretically ready to go. Its updates had been downloaded. All batteries were charged. The remote control was charged. The drone had been mated to Scott’s Android phone. He was nervous about flying it. It was so expensive. What if he lost it? What if it just decided to say, fuck you, Dover, I’m finding somewhere else to live?

That was why he chose Harrigan Lake. It was a large reservoir caused by the Harrigan Dam which impounded the Heritage River twenty miles northeast of the Heritage city limits. The area surrounding the dam and the entire reservoir was a California State Park. And it was legal to fly drones in California State Parks unless it was specifically forbidden. At the Harrigan Lake State Recreational Area, there was no rule against it other than the Federal rule that says stay away from the actual dam and the state prison just downstream from it. And, though the place was very popular in the spring and summer months, it was usually nearly deserted in the winter. There wasn’t much water in the lake yet and it would be a half mile walk from the parking area through mudflats to get to 56 degree water. It would be hard to lose the drone or injure someone with it this time of year.

The drone itself was tiny. The body about size of a TV remote control cut in half in the middle. And it was much lighter. The battery formed part of the body. Four arms, each about four inches long, folded out from the sides—two facing forward, two back. Each had a plastic propeller attached to it. The props would provide lift, stability in flight, relative motion, and steering. The flight controls were simple. Two small levers on the remote. The left lever controlled up and down and rotated the aircraft clockwise or counterclockwise. The right lever controlled forward, backward, left, and right. The app on the smartphone, which would be clipped to the remote for flight, would control everything else. There was a high definition video camera mounted on the drone and it could be controlled with yet another lever on the top of the controller. Its only motion was to pan from a straight ahead view to a straight down view.

He loaded the cooler and the drone case into the back seat of his Tacoma, checked that the batteries and remote were still snug in their slots, and closed the door with a solid thump. The truck smelled faintly of leather and kids—graham cracker dust embedded in the carpet, a half-crushed Capri Sun box jammed under the passenger seat.

The drive to the elementary school was short, winter sun slanting low through the windshield. He rolled into the same neighborhood he hit every school day, found his usual off-campus spot along the curb, and killed the engine.

Sunglasses on. Sweater zipped. He looked like any other dad heading toward pickup. Not the one who’d been crawling through Northwood alleys twelve hours ago with a Glock drawn, scanning shadows for a twitchy tweaker who might or might not have a knife.

He walked toward the pickup line. A painted metal sign stood at the sidewalk entrance, bold red letters across the top:

FIREARMS OR OTHER DANGEROUS WEAPONS ARE ABSOLUTELY PROHIBITED ON SCHOOL GROUNDS

Below it, a neat column of penal-code sections. Scott’s eyes didn’t linger, but his hand went down in an instinctive pat. The bulge on his right hip sat steady under the sweater—Glock 27, the one he’d bought for off-duty carry thirty-one hours after graduating the academy and getting his badge... 40 S&W. Concealed. Nine in the magazine and one in the chamber—ready.

Some laws didn’t apply to him—that was a perk of being a cop. There weren’t many in this line of work—night after night in Northwood proved that well enough. He’d seen maggots in living human flesh, mothers screaming over dead sons, people chasing Truth and Justice only to find it doesn’t really exist. Carrying a sidearm onto school grounds so he could watch the kids walk out safe? That was a small offset.

He adjusted his sunglasses, moved through the gate, and took his place in the familiar rhythm of parents waiting for their children.

And then he saw her.

Samantha Belkin stood a few yards down the line, one hand folded around her phone, the other tugging absently at the strap of her bag. It was the first time he’d laid eyes on her since the whole neighborhood went to shit with Judith’s whisper campaign. She hadn’t set foot in the walk-up crowd once since then, preferring the car line or maybe sending someone else altogether. Now, here she was—back again, like a ghost from another life.

She looked older than she had just a few months ago. Not in a way that ruined anything—Sam was still hot, with that natural platinum hair that caught the afternoon light and those legs that had first caught his attention watching her go to the mailbox—but stress had carved faint lines around her eyes, softened the glow in her skin. The woman who had once carried herself with the careless ease of someone being well and truly fucked was now tighter, more guarded, her smile dimmed.

The affair had been glorious while it lasted. She’d fallen into his arms desperate for something her husband couldn’t or wouldn’t give her—passion, skill, just plain attention. Scott had delivered, and for a while they’d both basked in it. Until Judith Linden noticed their little routine—how Scott and Samantha always left around the same time and always came back around the same time. Judith had fed it to Yamato at IAD, hoping to nail him with an adultery beef. Yamato shitcanned it, but Judith didn’t let it go. She spread it among the moms like wildfire.

When Samantha found out, she panicked. She had an infidelity clause in her prenup that would strip her bare if her husband could prove she’d cheated. She’d cut everyone off instantly, vanished from the walk-up, terrified of discovery. Scott hadn’t known if her husband had found out, if she’d been kicked out, or if she’d just gone to ground.

But here she was. Still wearing a big-ass wedding ring. Still living the life of the good provider’s wife. And standing not twenty feet from him on a crisp January afternoon, looking like time had stolen something from her but left her dangerous all the same.

Scott’s stomach tightened. He didn’t know if she’d even acknowledge him, or if she’d pretend he didn’t exist.

Samantha looked up, her platinum hair catching the low sun. The sunglasses made it hard to read her eyes, but Scott didn’t need them. He knew body language. The straightening of her shoulders. The way her weight shifted from one leg to the other. Nervous. But also determined—like a woman who’d finally decided she wasn’t going to hide forever.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed. The other moms were watching her too, little sidelong glances that cut sharp and quick. And at the center of it all, Judith Linden.

Judith stood with her little circle around her, but it wasn’t the crowd it used to be. Half the women who once flocked to her had peeled away in the last week, and the ones who remained kept shifting like they weren’t sure they wanted to be there. Judith herself was jittery, fidgeting with her bag strap, her nails, her phone. Every few seconds her gaze darted toward Scott—hard, mean, the kind of glare cops called an eyeball-fuck. A mean-mug. But it didn’t have the power it once did.

The gossip had spread like wildfire. Lena, Stacy, and a handful of the sharper women in the neighborhood had been busy. Financial irregularities in the HOA. Graft. Corruption. Influence peddling. Even something as petty but visceral as Judith caught parking in a handicapped space without a placard, plate, or disability. Somehow that last one seemed to hit the hardest—nothing made a suburban mob turn faster than the sight of someone stealing perks from the truly needy.

And now, for the first time in months, Samantha Belkin had shown her face again in the walk-up crowd. Coincidence? Maybe. But Scott had been around the block a few too many times to believe in timing like that.

Samantha took a breath and started walking straight toward him. Not drifting. Not sneaking in, not a flanking maneuver. Direct line, head up, every MILF in the pickup crowd turning to watch.

Scott’s gut went cold.

She’s pregnant! his mind screamed at him. That was the only explanation.

She had sworn she was on the pill, and Scott had believed her. Not because he was naïve, but because it made sense. Getting knocked up by him would destroy her life. Her prenup was airtight—any proof of infidelity and she got nothing. No money. No house. No safety net. The last thing Samantha Belkin would ever do was risk that by lying about birth control. All she’d wanted from him was good sex, not another kid or a different husband.

And yet—what if? What if she was one of those one-in-twenty-fucking-thousand failures of the system? He’d rolled in hot without a covering unit on those missions with Sammie, trusting her word. Now here she came, walking right at him.

His brain fractured into panic. He was good at a lot of things—letting people gently know that there really is no Truth or Justice, defusing tweaker households where one had been pinching meth from the other, breaking up a bum fight over leftover Salvation Army dinner rolls. But this? A woman about to tell him she was carrying his child, in the middle of a goddamn school pickup line? That was beyond his ability set.

And the very first thought wasn’t about Samantha at all. It was Maggie. How is this going to screw up my relationship with Maggie?

In the four seconds it took for him to realize Samantha was headed his way until she stopped in front of him, Scott convinced himself absolutely, completely, without a doubt: she was carrying his child in her uterus.

“Hey,” she said softly to him. Her face without expression.

“Hey,” he said back, his cop face firmly in place. “How have you been?”

I just came from the doctor’s office, she would say. And guess what, Papa?

She did not say this, however.

“I’m better now,” she told him. “The whole gaggle of neighborhood women know my business, but hubby never found out. Every day that passes means I’m a little safer.”

“Nobody has any proof of anything,” Scott told her. “Just Judith’s speculation and a spreadsheet that shows we like to run our errands for the day at about the same time. Never seen together. No one saw you entering or leaving my house after the first time. Even if someone did tell your hubby, there’s no evidence. You’re in the clear.”

“But I still did it,” she said.

Scott gave a little sigh. “We have a saying where I work. ‘You can un-fuck a situation sometimes, but never a person.’ People can’t be un-fucked, literally or figuratively. But the messes they make can be.”

She looked at him. “I really do miss you,” she said.

“I’m flattered,” he said, some genuine sincerity in his voice. She had been a fantastic lay. She’d even let him fuck her up the ass once. And now that achievement badge was in the books and he would never have to perform that particular act again. When you came right down to it, a pussy was a far superior thing to fuck. It was specifically designed for that—had a self-lubrication system and everything. And it was not nearly as messy. “We had a good little run.”

A little smile came to her face for a moment and then disappeared. “I suppose you’re wondering why I came over here.”

“As a matter of fact ... yes,” he said. “You’re not ... uh ... you know?”

“Uh ... no, I don’t know,” she said slowly. And then it dawned on her. “Oh!” she giggled a little. “No. Not that. My God, Scott. Do you think I’d tell you something like that in the pickup line?”

“I wouldn’t think you would,” Scott replied, “but no other explanation made sense.”

“Well, allow me to ease your mind. I have no nine-month download in progress. Something much less dramatic in nature, though of importance anyway.”

“Aren’t you afraid of Judith seeing us talking? Adding fuel to her little fire?”

“She has enough on her plate these days,” Samantha said. “The word is that you and your roommate and Lena and Stacy are about to drop an anvil on her head. The words ‘misuse of HOA funds,’ and ‘racketeering’ are being tossed around.”