Chapter 3: Crown Molding

Thursday – 2310 Hours

Northwood wasn’t a city. It was an unincorporated strip of leftover slum, wedged up against the north side of Heritage like something the city couldn’t quite scrape off. Since it had never been annexed—what the fuck would they want it for?—it fell under the jurisdiction of the Heritage County Sheriff’s Department instead of Heritage PD.

And that made it Scott and Maggie’s problem.

The district—called District 1—was a patchwork of liquor stores, payday advance joints, and aging duplexes and fourplexes sagging under the weight of long-term neglect. Every other block had a roach palace of an apartment complex, some so crammed full of people you could smell the stress from the parking lot.

Dirtbags of every shape, size, race, creed, and felony history filled those units—most just trying to get by, but enough of them ready to turn violent if the moment called for it. And in Northwood, it often did.

People got shot here. A lot. Sometimes they lived, sometimes they didn’t. Either way, it rarely made the news.

The homeless population was massive, anchored in place by a combination of city reluctance, county inaction, and a revolving door of half-funded nonprofits with cute names and no teeth. They camped under freeway overpasses, in vacant lots, behind the Circle K. When it rained, they moved closer to the apartments. When it didn’t, they spread out like spilled oil to every business and intersection to panhandle. They stole anything that wasn’t nailed down. Some of them were inhumanly clever—the kind of clever that comes from surviving fifteen years on the streets.

There were bars in Northwood that deputies never walked into without four units on scene. Minimum. And even then, you went in fast and stayed close. You didn’t go into the back rooms unless you had to. There could be anything going on back there—dangerous things.

The people here didn’t like the cops. Didn’t trust them. Didn’t want them around—until they really, really did.

And yet, without the deputies in Northwood, the place would collapse into full-on savagery by Tuesday. They were the thin blue line. That was the job.

It could suck sometimes. But sometimes ... it was fun.

It wasn’t fun for Scott Dover now.

He wasn’t on the streets with his comrades. He was out of the district and out of service, standing vigil in Mercy Del Rio Hospital’s emergency department with a prisoner who needed medical clearance before booking in the Heritage County main jail six blocks away.

Scott had arrested him nearly two hours ago after responding to a domestic violence call with Cooke—one of the other District 1 Alpha-Watch units. The man and woman they found were both drunk and in their late forties. The male, wearing saggy jeans and an actual wifebeater shirt (stereotypes existed for a reason), had punched his wife in the face during an argument about who had to go down to the 24-hour store across the tracks for more Basic cigarettes.

She’d expressed a lack of interest in the expedition. The verbal turned physical. He punched her several times in the face, giving her a black eye and bloody nose. She, in retaliation, picked up a salt shaker and nailed him in the forehead, leaving a nice red mark.

That’s why they were here now. The jail nurses refused to clear him for booking because he was complaining that his head hurt. They wanted a doctor to sign off.

So Scott cuffed him again, loaded him back into the Tahoe, and brought him here—Mercy Del Rio—for a magical doctor’s note.

Usually these detours took thirty minutes. The ER staff and the cops had an understanding: get us in and out, and we’ll bust ass to get here in force if you hit the panic button. But not tonight.

Tonight, a young doctor had taken the chart. And instead of doing the standard once-over and signing the paper, he ordered a CT scan “just to be sure.”

They’d been waiting over an hour for radiology.

Around them, the ER was crowded and chaotic. Nurses, techs, doctors, and a small army of people with unclear roles scurried past. The air smelled like vomit and feces. Moans echoed from hallways lined with gurneys.

Scott stood next to his prisoner, who was now seeing an opportunity to air his grievances.

He’d been polite on scene. Submitted to cuffs without a word. Walked to the unit without issue. Even behaved during his brief stop in booking.

But now? Now that he was safely cuffed, in front of multiple security cameras, had an audience, and was operating on a blood alcohol content that had to be .25?

He launched into the classic: “Man, if I wasn’t in these cuffs, I’d fuck this cop up...”

“I could do it, you know!” he bellowed, when Scott didn’t even look at him. “Just take ‘em off, motherfucker. What, you afraid? You know how bad I’ll fuck you up when I ain’t got these cuffs and you ain’t got all your fuckin’ buddies around.”

Scott yawned and rubbed his eyes. He wondered if one of the nurses would bring him a cup of coffee. They always had coffee going in a place like this. That’d be nice. A hot cup of hospital tar to go with the smell of piss and floor cleaner.

“Yeah, don’t talk to me, you fuckin’ cocksucker. You’re just a loser piece of shit who thinks that fuckin’ badge and that fuckin’ gun make you something. I bet you’ve never even had pussy before. You ever fucked a bitch, Officer Dover?”

Scott looked at his watch. Not even midnight. What a rip. He was looking forward to Code-7—lunch break. Maggie was working tonight—Thursdays were their overlap—and his mom had kid duty. They always tried to grab food together on Thursdays, if they could.

“I bet you can’t even get your fuckin’ dick hard,” the man continued, his voice loud enough to echo down the ER hallway. “Do you even have a dick?”

Then, suddenly, he stood from the hospital gurney, chest puffed out, taking an aggressive stance.

“Come on, fuckhead! You piece of shit! I’ll fight you with the fuckin’ cuffs on. Let’s go!”

Scott looked at him. Calm. Flat. Cop-calm.

“Sit back down on that gurney,” he said.

“Or what, you fuckin’ tampon?”

“Or I’ll put you there,” Scott replied evenly. “And I don’t think you’ll enjoy the ride.”

“Fuck you!” the man barked. “I could kick your fuckin’ ass from here to the fuckin’ river. I don’t have to do shit you tell me!”

His point might’ve landed harder if he hadn’t sat down while making it.

Finally, they got the call for the CT scan. A tech wheeled the prisoner over, with Scott following behind. They rolled into the main work area, then into the scanner room itself.

“We’re gonna need to take the handcuffs off to get the scan,” the tech said apologetically.

Scott sighed.

The prisoner—Derick something-or-other—looked up at him. Not running his mouth for once. Scott knew why. There were no cameras in here. Just the tech, who might or might not remember what he’d seen if it ever came up. Derick was suddenly very still.

Scott would never do anything untoward. It wasn’t in his nature.

Other cops? Well...

But Scott wasn’t above using the psychology of the moment.

“Stand up,” he said.

Nervously, Derick did.

“I’m going to take the cuffs off for now,” Scott told him. “And when I do, you’re going to lie on that table like the gentleman here tells you and stay perfectly still while he runs the scan. If you do anything other than that, you’re going to experience being tasered. Are we on the same page, Derick?”

“We’re on the same page, Officer,” Derick said quickly.

Scott had no more trouble out of him after that. He even apologized for being such an asshole. It was a drunken, regretful apology, but Scott appreciated the thought.

They waited another forty-five minutes for the CT results—absolutely nothing wrong with his brain, aside from the obvious—and he was cleared for booking.

Scott took the magical piece of paper and headed out into the ambulance bay, prisoner in hand.

After clearing the jail just past 1:30 and driving back into Northwood, Scott tapped the Available tab on his MDT touchscreen. Nothing popped up that required his attention. No calls for service pending in District 1. He was clear to patrol on his own—for now.

He checked the status of the other District 1 units. The Charlie shift was heading in for the barn, but Delta would still be out until 0400. The Adam Watch units—nobody knew why they called it Adam instead of Alpha—were all in service.

Two were on a 415-family call on the west side. One was on a vehicle stop by the light rail station. The other three were roaming. He couldn’t see their locations, but dispatch could. Everyone was GPS-linked.

It would behoove him to get his Code-7 in before the Delta units cleared. More coverage that way.

A message blinked onto his screen—orange on black. From Maggie.

MEET ME AT THE STINKHOLE AND WE’LL TALK CHOW.

The Stinkhole was one of their regular hideouts. Behind a closed-down Mexican seafood joint that still reeked of fryer grease and spoiled fish two years after its last Yelp review.

OTW, he typed back—on the way—then turned the Tahoe in that direction.

Traffic was light. He pulled in less than five minutes later and swung around the back. Maggie was already there, parked facing out. He pulled in facing in, their driver’s side windows aligned for conversation—and for eyes out in both directions.

Scott leaned his elbow on the windowsill of his Tahoe, sipping lukewarm coffee from a travel mug that had once had a lid, long since lost to time and recklessness.

“What was that bullshit you got hung up on at the jail?” Maggie asked. “You were gone like three hours.”

He told her the story of the overcautious doctor. They shook their heads in mutual disdain.

He didn’t mention the prisoner’s drunken monologue. That wasn’t a story. That was brushing your teeth. Shaving. An everyday occurrence. Who gave a fuck?

“Remind me not to take prisoners to Mercy tonight,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah, I fucked up. Should’ve driven him to County.”

“What can you do?” she asked. “County a fuckin’ madhouse always.”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, Sarge will probably let us eat. Nothing’s in progress. Where to? Lupita’s? Or that sketchy pho place on Trumbull?”

“Pho sounds good,” she said, yawning. “As long as it’s not the kind of sketchy that turns into a three-hour toilet session.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” he said. “Odds are, one in twenty meals there’s gonna go sideways.”

“What about Lupita’s?”

“Thirty to one,” he said.

“Lupita’s it is.” She reached for the keyboard. “I’ll IM Sarge—”

She didn’t get the chance.

Both MDTs lit up at the same time. A half-second later, the dispatcher came over the air:

“All units in the vicinity—and Twelve-Adam and Fifteen-Adam. Code Three response. Possible 245. Shots fired, possible man down. Seven-Eleven at Elmont and 26th. Multiple callers. Fire and EMS staging.”

Maggie’s voice came first: “Twelve-Adam, en route.”

Scott keyed up: “Fifteen-Adam, same.”

There was nothing else to say. GPS had already flagged them as the closest units.

Both engines flared to life.

Scott dropped his coffee into the holder and threw the Tahoe into gear. “Well, there goes pho.”

Maggie flashed her headlights. “That’s a rip.”

They turned on their emergency lights and activated their sirens. Red and blue LEDs lit up the night, strobing off walls and window fronts. Their engines roared as they tore down Highland Street.

The only update from dispatch was that someone was down and bleeding badly. No information on the suspect. Caller was hysterical.

They killed the sirens as they approached. Already they could see a decent-sized crowd gathered outside the entrance to the 7-Eleven.

They pulled in and parked, seatbelts already off. Sirens from other units were approaching—some near, some far. Maggie was assigned lead, but every free unit in the district was en route. They could always be cancelled later.

“Twelve-Adam and Fifteen-Adam both on scene,” Scott heard Maggie say over the air. “Large crowd—twenty to twenty-five people. Making contact.”

“Copy, Twelve-Adam and Fifteen-Adam,” the dispatcher replied. “Units, keep the air clear.”

The radio began beeping every five seconds. A reminder to stay off the channel until the units on scene reported back.

They approached carefully, body cams switched on by instinct. Both drew their guns—not pointed, just in hand behind their backs, in case things went sideways fast. Flashlights in their left hands, illuminating the pavement, even though the storefront was well-lit.

“What’s going on?” Maggie called out as they waded in.

Uncomfortable. Surrounded. Too many people, too close. This was Highland Street Crips territory, and the 7-Eleven was a known hangout. Gang members, associates, and runners were packed in tight.

Fifteen people shouted fifteen different things. But the gist was clear:

Someone in a car had shot Moo-Moo. He was bleeding out. They needed to help his ass.

They pushed forward and found him just outside the entrance, on the walkway.

Jeans. Blue shirt. Blue laces. Maybe sixteen, maybe younger. And dying.

Two obvious bullet wounds in the chest. One bubbling air. The other pumping blood. The kid was gasping—slow, ragged breaths. Agonal breathing. It meant you were dying, and fast.

“Who shot him?” Maggie asked the crowd. “Where are they now?”

“Some motherfucker in a car pulled in and popped him,” said a banger near the front, eyes wide, voice shaking. “Pow! Pow! Why they wanna shoot Moo-Moo? That shit ain’t right!”

“And they drove off?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah!” He pointed north. “That way.”

“What kind of car?” Scott asked.

“I dunno. Just a fuckin’ car! He’s bleedin’ to death, man! Fuckin’ do something!”

They did.

Maggie keyed up: “One GSW victim down. Suspects fled in a vehicle ten minutes ago. No description. Scene still unstable.”

Great. They were looking for “a fuckin’ car” in Northwood at two o’clock in the morning. No problem.

Scott ran back to his Tahoe and grabbed the first aid kit. By the time he returned, Moo-Moo wasn’t breathing at all.

Scott pulled on gloves, felt for a pulse in the neck. Nothing.

“CPR,” he said calmly.

“Right,” Maggie replied. “I’ll do compressions. You bag him.”

He tossed her a pair of gloves.

She keyed her mic. “Twelve-Adam. Scene secure. CPR in progress. Have EMS come in.”

She started compressions. Every push sent a jet of blood out of the holes in the kid’s chest. Scott quickly assembled a bag-valve mask and began blowing hair into the kids throat—two squeezes of the bag for every thirty compressions.

Scott knew the kid was gone. They were going through the motions now. He was so fucking young. Six, seven years older than Katie. Not even shaving yet. Gunned down in a shitty 7-Eleven parking lot. For what? Dope debt? Gang rivalry? Nothing worth a young kid’s precious life.

Units flooded in. Four patrol cars, plus the sergeant. They began securing the area, herding away the witnesses. Asking questions. Nobody saw nothin’. Same old story.

Heritage County EMS and a fire crew arrived. The medics stepped in, fast and professional.

“At least two GSWs to the chest,” Maggie reported to them. “He was agonal when we arrived. No pulse or breathing now.”

“Okay,” said the medic. “Let me in there.”

He didn’t cut the kid’s clothes—knew better. Instead, he lifted the shirt just enough to place the EKG electrodes: one on each hand, two on the lower abdomen.

He told them to stop compressions. Everyone froze. Watched the monitor.

Flatline. Not so much as a wiggle in it. No electrical activity in the heart at all.

“Penetrating trauma to the chest,” the medic said. “Asystole on the monitor. Patient is deceased.” He checked his watch. “Time of death: 0205.”

Everyone backed off a few steps.

Moo-Moo was no longer a patient.

He was a crime scene.

Friday – 0706 Hours

The Chambers was loud and grimy and smelled like what it was—a bar full of off-duty cops who hadn’t showered yet. The air carried the tang of spilled beer, floor disinfectant, and the rank sweat of Kevlar vests peeled off less than an hour ago.

Maggie and Scott were in civilian clothes—t-shirts, jeans, ballcaps—but still carried themselves like patrol. Both were still armed. Everyone was. It was perhaps not a good idea to have a bunch of armed people sitting around drinking beer or whiskey like it was Gatorade during a football game, but they were all professionals. It you had to have a bunch of drunken people sitting around in a group with concealed firearms strapped to their waists, then cops were who you wanted doing it.

They sat at their usual round table in the back, sharing it this morning with Carter from District 3—white, big-mouthed, and born to talk shit—and Lira from District 2—Latina, sharp-eyed, unapologetically brutal when needed. They weren’t a couple, but that didn’t stop people from making assumptions.

They all had beers in front of them. Scott’s was half gone. Maggie’s was untouched, which meant she was still decompressing.

“You two caught that 187 last night?” Carter asked, wiping condensation off his glass.

“Yep,” Maggie said. “Some banger called Moo-Moo. Two rounds in the ten ring. Agonal when we got there. Bled out on the sidewalk next to his fuckin’ Slurpee.”

“Fuckin’ Moo-Moo,” Lira muttered. “Why do they all name themselves after children’s books before they get ventilated?”

Scott took a drink. “I don’t know, but the suspects were reportedly in ‘a fuckin’ car.’ That’s the vehicle description we were working with.”

“Gang beef?” Carter asked.

“Looks that way,” Maggie said. “Highland Street Crips turf. No one’s talkin’. No one saw nothing except ‘a fuckin’ car’ with two homies in it pulled up and blasted him and then drove off north on Highlands. Shocker.”

“Maybe a revenge hit for that stabbing last week,” Lira added.

“Maybe,” Maggie said. “Or he looked at someone wrong. Hard to say. Gotta be gang related though. Not a drug deal gone bad. Doesn’t fit.”

They all agreed the drug deal gone bad didn’t fit the limited facts at hand. And they all drank on that.

“Hey,” Carter said, shifting in his chair. “How’s the new pad in Gardenville? Seriously.”

Scott smirked. “It’s got charm. Great schools. Friendly neighbors.”

“Friendly?” Maggie laughed. “One of the hoity-toity housewives who thinks she’s Queen Shit of the housing tract called 911 on move-in day and said two armed murderers were loading up to kill someone.”

Lira blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Yeah,” Scott said. “Middle of the goddamn day. Unloading lamps and books. GPD rolls up hot—long guns out, and starts to fuckin’ felony prone us right in front of our kids.”

“What the fuck?” Lira asked.

“Apparently the bitch saw Dover’s strap while she was watching us,” Maggie said. “She jumped to a whole fuckin’ string of conclusions from there.”

“She didn’t jump to them,” Scott said, “she was airdropped to them by a fuckin’ Amazon drone.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Carter asked.

“Told them we were cops,” Scott said. “They bailed so fast they didn’t even apologize.”

“Didn’t even get the fridge inside yet,” Maggie said. “Hell of a welcome wagon.”

Scott then narrated the ongoing issues with Judith Linden. Lira and Carter shook their heads in disbelief.

“Why the fuck do you stay there?” Carter asked.

“Well ... there’s the fact that we signed mortgage documents,” said Maggie.

“Besides,” Scott added, raising his beer, “it’s not all bad. There are a few perks to living in such a place.”

“Oh yeah?” Lira said. “Like what?”

“One of the MILFs wants Dover to clean and lube her barrel,” Maggie said, straight-faced.

Lira blinked. Carter nodded appreciatively.

“No shit?” he said. “Now we’re talking. You banged her yet?”

“Not yet,” Scott said. “Still pondering.”

“Are you sure she wants to bone you?” Lira asked.

“He’s sure,” Maggie said. “She ain’t being subtle. Talked to him at the mailbox. Said her husband’s out of town and she has ‘things’ that need taking care of.”

“God damn, Dover,” Carter said. “Why ain’t you tapped that shit yet? What’s she look like?”

Scott shrugged. “She’s hot. Like, unreasonably, unseasonably hot.”

“Tits that would make the fuckin’ Pope wanna lean in and have a little suck,” Maggie added.

“What’s the problem then?” Lira asked.

“She’s married. It feels messy.”

“Messy?” Lira said. “Married? What the fuck, Dover? This ain’t fuckin’ Mayberry or Leave it to Beaver here. You have to bone her. It’s your civic fuckin’ duty.”

“Community engagement,” Carter agreed. “That’s what they pay us for.”

“Well ... she is pretty hot,” he said. “And all I’ve nailed are the badge bunnies since I learned they exist.”

“Do it for your awkward teenage self,” Lira said. “Do it for Northwood.”

“Do it for Moo-Moo,” Carter added, raising his glass.

“To Moo-Moo,” Maggie echoed.

They all drank.

Scott stepped out into the sunlight and immediately squinted. Even with sunglasses on, it was too bright. His body was still on vampire time—circadian rhythms all twisted from four straight nights of being nocturnal.

It was only supposed to hit ninety today, but for a night shifter, that may as well be Death Valley. Still, the lawn needed mowing.

He was in his beat up Nike’s with no socks, wearing old gym shorts and nothing else. Shirtless wasn’t a performance—he’d been raised that way. Grew up country. You mowed your own damn yard, and you didn’t do it wearing Patagonia.

He knew he looked good, though.

Not vanity. Just fact. He was lean, strong, and tan from all the yard work he couldn’t afford to pay someone else to do.

All the neighbors on either side had landscapers—trucks and trailers and teams of guys in matching shirts who showed up on rotation. Not their house.

He’d offered to take over the lawn duties when they moved in, and Maggie hadn’t argued. The cost of a new lawnmower, edger, and blower had been a big chunk of change, but it was a one-time expense. Not the monthly bill of a professional landscaping service.

He plugged in his earbuds, hit play on his ‘90s rock playlist, and gave the mower cord a yank. The engine coughed to life.

As he pushed forward through the patchy grass, Pearl Jam bled into Soundgarden. He wasn’t thinking about anything important.

Dinner maybe. Something easy. Meatloaf again? Or that cheesy pasta thing the kids liked?

He didn’t notice the curtain across the street twitch.

From the second-floor window of her house, Samantha Belkin watched the cop mow his lawn.

He was shirtless again. Of course he was.

Barefoot, tan, muscles flexing with every pass of the mower. His back was all sinew and strength—nothing sculpted in a gym, just practical muscle, the kind you earned by lifting heavy things and wrestling with drunk people in parking lots at 2:00 AM.

She should not have been looking. She absolutely should not have been standing in her air-conditioned master bedroom, sipping iced coffee and watching her across-the-street neighbor sweat under the sun with his earbuds in and his stupidly perfect V-cut abs on full display like he didn’t even know what he was doing to her.

Which was the worst part.

He didn’t know. Or he didn’t care.

Scott Dover was not like the men she usually flirted with—suitable men, safe men. The kind who wore J.Crew and had weak hands and Business degrees.

She’d never cheated. Not once. Not even a thought.

And yet here she was.

Watching. Wanting. Waiting.

He bent slightly to adjust the mower height and she audibly gasped. He had such a nice ass. The kind of ass a woman liked to put her hands on, to squeeze, to experience. Especially if it was a naked ass and she was grasping it while he was balls deep inside of her body.

“Jesus,” she muttered to herself, fanning her neck. “Get a grip.” Her panties were absolutely soaked right now and she resisted the urge to put her hand down up under the hem of her cute Nordstroms summer dress and start touching and feeling herself.

It had been—what—six months since Alan had last touched her? And even that had been more about obligation than anything else. Two minutes of grunting and done. He was always too tired. Too busy. Or just ... indifferent.

She had only slept with two people in her entire life. Two. And never once—not once—had she had an orgasm that didn’t involve her own hands afterward.

And now this cop—this shirtless, grass-cutting, rock-music-listening, rule-breaking creature of raw manhood—was living across the street, completely ignoring her very clear, very inappropriate signals.

She had flirted with him three times now. More, really. First at the mailbox. Then the pickup line. Then that morning he came home from work looking exhausted and competent and unfairly hot in a t-shirt that clung in all the right places.

And he’d been polite. Cordial. And absolutely blind to it.

Or worse—restrained.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what this was. It was wrong. Dangerous. Completely out of character.

But she also knew something else.

If Scott Dover so much as crooked his finger at her—if he so much as looked at her like he wanted her—she would fuck him.

No hesitation. No apology.

She would cross the street, walk through his front door, and let that dangerous, competent, maddening man take her apart.

And right now? He didn’t even know she was watching, fantasizing.

Oh my God, I want to fuck him so badly, she thought to herself. Maybe I should let him see me a little? Maybe get the ball rolling?

She knew that she was hot. She knew that men dreamed of fucking her. And she had a target in sight. She was completely inexperienced at this game, but she wanted to take it to the next level nonetheless.

She decided that her outside plants needed a bit of water. And maybe the rose bushes needed a little trim.

She had no true expectation that she was going to be fucking him shortly. She was just going to flirt a little bit, show the flag. See if she could advance her cause.

Even if he asked her right now, she couldn’t do it. She had showered earlier but had not shaved herself in certain places. There was a little blonde stubble down there. She would never allow someone to see her unmaintained hoo-hoo.

Or so she thought.

Scott turned into his next row, mower humming beneath his hands, sweat dripping down his spine. As he angled back toward the street, he caught movement from across the way.

Samantha Belkin.

She had stepped outside in a sundress. Short. Floral. Light fabric that caught the breeze and moved with her body like it had nowhere better to be.

She had a watering can in one hand and a pair of rose clippers in the other. Her tits bounced slightly with every step, and her legs—tan, toned, perfectly smooth—stole his attention for a full second longer than he meant to give.

It was ... conspicuous.

He turned back on the next pass and saw her glance up. She waved—just a flick of her fingers.

He gave one back. Casual.

When he finished the last row, he parked the mower in the middle of the lawn and let the engine tick quietly as it cooled. He reached for the trimmer—but then he saw her. Crossing the street. Walking right toward him.

Shit. Was this it?

Maggie’s voice rang in his head: This is the sex coup of the fuckin’ century, bro. Legendary shit. You have to do it.

Carter had backed her up. Lira too. Every single one of his peers at The Chambers had said the same thing in a dozen different ways:

“You’d better fuck her.”

“You owe it to the community.”

“Do it for Moo-Moo.”

Scott had never had a sex coup before.

He’d had sex. Plenty of it. Married sex. Badge bunny sex. Sloppy, trying-to-impress-each-other college sex.

But never a coup.

And here one came, walking toward him in a dress and sandals, hips swaying like a metronome ticking down to his next bad decision.

She was gorgeous. Married. Off-limits. A fantasy made flesh.

And if she said even one thing—one line—that could be interpreted as an invitation?

He was going for it

The kids were at school. Maggie was asleep. There was motive and opportunity.

It was time to fuckin’ coup.

Samantha reached the edge of the lawn, smile painted just slightly too sweet.

Scott wiped his hands on his shorts as Samantha stepped onto the edge of the lawn. Her watering can and her rose clippers had been left behind. He could see the fuckin’ rock of Gibraltar sitting on the ring finger of her left hand. It caught the sun and sparkled intently as she approached his position.