Chapter 3
Chapter three
Asher
I don’t actually hate pancakes.
I just hate how many of them an eleven-year-old can eat when he’s on a kick.
Brick’s standing at the table inhaling another syrup-soaked stack like he’s training for a carb-loading championship. I spear one for myself — mostly because coffee alone doesn’t qualify as parenting — and glance at the clock.
“Brick!” I call as he runs back up the stairs. “Two more minutes or I’m leaving without you!”
Empty threat. He’s only been at Golden Heights Middle for five days. I’m not about to toss him to the wolves just yet. But if I don’t light a fire under him, we’ll both be late … him to school, me to roll call.
I drain the rest of my coffee, scanning the cluttered table: empty cereal box, hockey tape, a half-finished math worksheet. I really do need to find a babysitter. Between learning a new job and helping Brick settle, I’m stretched thinner than the syrup on his sticky plate.
“Coming!” floats down from upstairs.
I holster my patience, check the gear on my duty belt, and shrug into my jacket. “Sirens are going on if you’re not down here in thirty seconds!”
That gets the familiar thud-thud-thud of sneakers on stairs. Brick appears in a red flannel over a T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, backpack slung haphazardly.
“You wouldn’t,” he says.
“Try me.” I grin and grab my keys. “Nothing says ‘make friends fast’ like a dad who’s sheriff and proud of it.”
“Dad.” His groan is pure preteen. “I’m trying to make friends.”
“Then don’t be late.” We head to the cruiser and climb in, heat rolling off the desert pavement.
“Seat belt.”
Click.
I pull out of the driveway. “So… first week. Anyone cool?”
He shrugs, eyes on the window. Classic Brick: gentle, cautious, taking it all in. “Met a kid yesterday. Chris. He traded me a KitKat.”
“Big move,” I say. “Sharing chocolate? That’s friendship level two.”
He snorts despite himself.
We ride in companionable quiet for a while. Then, just as the school comes into view, he says, “Please don’t turn the siren on.”
“Why not? Scares off bullies.”
“I don’t want attention, Dad.”
I glance over at him — lanky, still figuring himself out — and sigh. “Fine. But tomorrow, if you’re late…”
He grins. “Yeah, yeah. Full siren humiliation.”
He hops out and jogs toward the school with a small wave. I watch until he disappears inside, then pull away, drumming my fingers on the wheel. Another day to prove myself as Golden Heights’ reliable first responder.
Golden Heights at eight a.m. is a slow hum of desert life waking up: shop doors clanking open, the whir of an ancient ceiling fan in a storefront, a man in a cowboy hat sweeping dust off a porch.
This town’s only big enough for one high school, one middle, and a cluster of diners everyone swears are “the best.” They size up new people quickly. Especially a sheriff.
I still feel like the outsider — “that guy from out of town.” I catch myself scanning storefronts, memorizing names painted on weathered signs, trying to stitch myself into the fabric here. If people see me show up and handle business, maybe they’ll start trusting me when it matters.
Dispatch chatter crackles: minor fender bender on Route 9, a suspicious person call that turns out to be a teenager with a hoodie. I handle one, wave at a few shopkeepers. Someone honks and gives me the once-over. Small town: they’re deciding if I belong.
Then the 911 call comes: “pet in distress.” Closest unit wins the prize. Guess that’s me.
I park at a faded ranch-style house. A woman in a hospital-issue gown is smoking on the porch like she’s been waiting since the Carter administration.
“Ma’am,” I say. “Sheila Hunter?”
She nods, unimpressed.
“You called about a pet?”
“Took you long enough.” She gestures with her cigarette. “My poor Bennington’s been stuck for hours.”
“I’m sorry about the delay — we’re a little short-staffed today.” And apparently out of Febreze; the cigarette smoke hits like a wall.
“Where is Bennington?”
She points toward a rickety basement door. “Down there. Hole in the wood. Kids with skateboards — I’ve complained. Nobody cares.”
I jot notes while resisting the urge to cough. “We’ll… look into that. What kind of animal is Bennington?”
“She.” Her glare could curdle milk. “And you’ll see.”
Great.
I unlatch the basement door, click on my flashlight, and descend into a cave of dust and forgotten furniture. “Bennington?” My voice echoes off concrete. “Come on, buddy…”
The beam hits movement behind an old bookshelf.
Oh. Not a cat. Not a dog.
A full-grown monitor lizard, tongue flicking like something from a nature doc. My stomach does a neat little drop.
“Ma’am?” I call up. “You forgot to mention Bennington is a monitor lizard.”
“Not illegal!” she yells back. “Last I checked!”
I radio dispatch: “Be advised, animal is… reptilian. Requesting guidance.”
Static, then: “Animal control ETA twenty-five minutes.”
I could wait. Or I could get mauled and make the evening news.
“She’s harmless!” Sheila hollers. “Just pick her up!”
I slip on gloves, inch closer, heart pounding. The lizard eyes me like it’s debating lunch. Carefully, I scoop her up, supporting her long body.
Almost home free when Sheila calls, “Oh! Don’t touch her head — she’s sensitive!”
The lizard whips around and snaps. I nearly eat basement floor, stumble up the last steps, and launch her gently onto the lawn. She waddles off, offended but alive.
I turn to Sheila, dust-covered and glaring. “Information like don’t touch her head? Useful earlier.”
She shrugs. “Common sense.”
“Ma’am,” I say, peeling off gloves, “that is not common sense.”
“Guess we have different definitions.”
I swallow my irritation and slide professionalism back into place. “Anything else you need?”
“Fix the hole. And the skateboard punks.”
“Duly noted.”
Back in the cruiser, I radio, “Cancel animal control. Situation resolved.” Translation: never sending me back here.
As I wipe dust off my uniform, I can’t help but smile a little.
Weird calls like this — the ones no academy prepares you for — are what earn trust faster than any press conference.
Somebody’s grandma will tell this story at bingo tonight, and by morning half the town will know the new sheriff wrestled a lizard before breakfast.
Patrol slows, and I spot a diner I haven’t tried for lunch yet. Scotty’s. Red booths, buzzing fans, the kind of place TV shows romanticize. Smells like frying bacon and fresh pie. Feels good to step inside out of the sun.
I take a booth. The room hums with conversation until they notice the badge — eyes flicker, curious. New sheriff in town.
I order water, check my phone, let the hum of chatter wash over me. If I’m going to be accepted here, it starts with showing up in the places locals love.
A waitress approaches with a notepad and easy smile — until she sees me.
She stops dead. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”
My stomach drops.
It’s her.
“Well, if it isn’t Officer A. Vaughn,” says Jasmine Wallace, voice sugary and laced with glee.
Oh, come on.