Chapter 15 Asher
Chapter fifteen
Asher
The morning after Lake Day, Golden Heights feels rinsed clean.
The sky is a polished blue coin; the cottonwoods along my street hiss with a slow, easy wind.
People wave a little longer than usual as I pull out of the driveway—one guy in a fishing hat gives me a thumbs-up I haven’t earned but know the reason for anyway.
Word travels fast here, faster than a wake across the cove.
Brick hums under his breath in the passenger seat, that tuneless kid hum he does when he’s somewhere else entirely.
Flashes of the lake ambush me: little hands, a silt plume, salt on my tongue that isn’t salt; Sabrina coughing water, her mother’s hands shaking on her cheeks.
And later, the shaved-ice stand—the way Jasmine looked at me over a dome of lemon-lime ice like she’d forgotten how to blink.
I care about you, I told her. What the heck was I thinking?
Maybe the truth. Maybe something too big for a line at the marina.
We pull up to the school. Brick stares out the window like he can will himself invisible, and an old ache grips my ribs.
“Has Andrew Beckett bothered you lately?” I finally ask.
A tiny shake of his head. I can’t tell if it’s truth or training. Brick is brave in ways that make no sound. Sometimes that scares me more than any scream.
“If something’s going on, you’ll tell me. Right?”
“I’m fine, Dad. I promise.” He tries on a smile; it doesn’t quite fit yet.
I park and climb out. He blinks. “What are you doing?”
“Just need to talk to your vice principal.” I try to make it sound like I’m checking on the cafeteria meatloaf. “Not about you.”
Suspicion flickers, but he shoulders his backpack and disappears into the stream of kids. I watch until the doors swallow him, then lock the car and go hunting for Riley Jenkins.
Riley listens like it’s her whole job. Which, I guess, it is. Hands folded neatly on the desk, knuckles lined up like dominoes.
“I understand you recently had a… spat with Mr. Beckett,” she says.
A humorless sound slips out. Spat. Right.
“I want you to know I’m up to speed. We missed it. That’s on us. I’ll keep an extra eye on Brick. He won’t deal with anything like that again.”
I keep my arms crossed because I don’t trust my hands not to shake. Rage wants motion; it wants to throw itself at something. Instead, I sit and swallow hard.
“You’ll watch out for him?” My voice scrapes lower.
“I promise.” She leans forward a fraction. “The bullying lasted because we didn’t know. That’s our failure—my failure. If you want to press charges or—”
“I just want it never to happen again.” My voice goes quiet, brittle as glass. “He was pushed. In your program. No one noticed. What else did we miss?”
I stop there. I’ve walked that spiral before; it doesn’t help Brick or me. It only eats time and sleep.
“Mr. Vaughn.” Riley’s face softens but doesn’t go slack. “It won’t happen again.”
I rub my forehead. I didn’t see it either. My son moved through this house like a ghost, and I didn’t hear his feet. That’s on me. Golden Heights is small—no excuses for that kind of blind.
“I’m not pressing charges,” I say, leaning in. “Not going to make his life harder just to win a point in court.”
“I understand.” She exhales. “We’ll do better. I’ll do better.”
***
My phone buzzes. Dispatch. I stand, nod, and head for the door. Her gaze follows me down the hallway; I hope it means promise kept, not just promise made.
A 9-1-1 call in the rougher blocks always slams my heart into fifth gear—no matter how calm the voice on the other end sounds, and this one isn’t calm.
“Help! Please help! He’s going to die—”
“Dispatch, what’s my situation?” I radio as the houses thin and the scrub thickens. Dry yards, chain link, trikes on porches. Red rock jags at the horizon, heat shimmers above it.
“We still have the caller,” the voice crackles. “She’s on the line. Maybe that’s good.”
“Maybe.” I push the pedal down.
I spot her on the front steps: early thirties, lopsided bun, faded sunflower T-shirt, exhaustion settled into her shoulders. A scrubby mesquite throws spiky shade across the yard, bigger than it looked from the street, branches like a messy crown.
“Catherine Stone?” I call, killing the siren.
“Yes,” she answers, thin and breathless.
“Officer Vaughn.” I flash the badge. “What’s happening?”
“Please—he’s going to kill himself up there. I’ve begged him to come down, and he just won’t.”
I turn. “Up there?”
“Matthew.” Her hand shakes as she points. “He’s in the tree. Please—”
I swallow hard. Some calls bruise you where no one sees. This isn’t one of those. This is a boy in a tree and a mother cracking in half on a porch, and a hundred ways to make it worse if I’m not careful.
“I’m not coming down!” a voice yells from the limbs—small, stubborn.
“Hey, Matthew.” I shade my eyes. He’s wedged between two branches, sneakers braced, white socks grey with dust. Black T-shirt, black shorts. Perfect heat magnets. “Want to come down and talk?”
“No!” Firm as a judge denying bail.
“Why not?” My tone stays easy. The trick is to be water. Rocks don’t get kids out of trees.
“Because she promised to get me tickets and now she won’t!”
Catherine makes a sound that’s part laugh, part sob. I glance back.
“Tickets to what?”
“Harry Styles!” Matthew shouts, like I’ve been living under a rock.
I look at Catherine. She gives a helpless, watery shake of her head. “He found a reseller. I told him if he did, I’d… try. I work two jobs. His dad died a few years back. I can’t afford those prices. I said no and he bolted up the tree like a cat.”
“You lied!” Matthew yells down.
“I work two jobs to keep us afloat,” she whispers to me. “I’d have to take a loan to sit in the nosebleeds.”
I take her in: hollows carved under her cheekbones by the sun, hands softened by endless cleaning.
And a thought slips in—unkind to my own stubbornness: These are the people Jasmine fights for.
Against rigs and ‘redevelopment,’ offers that are really threats.
Against being priced out of the only place their lives make sense.
“I just don’t have the money,” Catherine says. “Tickets are seven-fifty and up.”
I open my mouth to say something measured and responsible and—
“Snake!” Matthew shrieks. “Snake! Snake!”
I don’t look up. Looking up panics both parties. “Okay, buddy,” I call, stepping under him with arms ready. “We’ll do this slow. Slide your foot onto that thick branch to your left. Good. Hands around the trunk. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” Calm, steady. “Right into my arms. Three, two—there you go.”
He lets go. All bones and summer heat, heavier than he looks. Catherine makes a sound mostly air and wraps him so tight I hear him wheeze. I set him down and turn just in time to see a glossy banded tail vanish deeper into the leaves. Great. Even the wildlife’s dramatic.
“Dispatch, Animal Control,” I radio. “Possible kingsnake in a mesquite. No bite. Family’s okay.”
“Copy,” Tina drawls back. “Tell Matthew we’ll name it Harry if that helps.”
I almost smile. “Copy.”
“Thank you,” Catherine whispers, hands to her mouth. “Thank you.”
I crouch in front of Matthew. He stares at his sneakers like they betrayed him, sweat pasting his bangs to his forehead.
“Listen,” I tell him. “Parents make promises to survive the day. Sometimes money, or life, or a snake gets in the way. If your mom could buy you a thousand tickets, she would. That’s not a lie. That’s fact. Cut her a little slack. Do that for me?”
His mouth fights itself, then surrenders. “Yes, Officer.” A quick glance to his mom. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay,” she breathes, hugging him again. “You’re okay. That’s what matters.”
“Tell you what,” I say, standing. “I know a guy who knows a guy. I’ll see if we can conjure a miracle. No promises—but maybe there’s a nosebleed seat with your name on it.”
Their faces light up like someone turned on a lamp inside. Hope is reckless and heavy; I feel it anyway.
“Thank you,” Matthew says, throwing his arms around my middle. My ribs protest. My heart doesn’t.
Back at the cruiser, I pull the door shut and just sit for a beat, forehead against the wheel.
Then I dig out my phone and scroll to a number I haven’t used in years—Rico Alvarez, Miami PD, now running private security for half the music venues in the state.
I once dragged Rico out of a mess that could’ve ended his career and maybe his freedom; he’s owed me since.
He answers on the second ring. “Vaughn? Thought you were dead.”
“Not dead. Need a miracle, for next weekend, Phoenix. Two Harry Styles tickets—real ones, not nosebleeds. Kid tried to climb out of his life today.”
There’s a low whistle. “Front section. I’ll call a guy. Owe you big anyway.”
“You did.” My voice goes rougher than I expect. “Thank you, Rico.”
“Anytime, brother.”
By the time I hang up, confirmation texts are already pinging through—floor seats, no charge. I exhale, long and shaky, and think about Catherine’s face when I hand them over. Small wins. Sometimes they’re the only thing that keeps the day from eating you alive.
As I head back to the cruiser’s route home, a redhead with a temper and a diner bearing her grandfather’s nickname edges into my thoughts. Something softens that I’ve been keeping hard. I don’t just owe Jasmine an apology. I owe her better than the way I’ve been pretending not to understand.
Okay—maybe an apology too.
***
My couch swallows me whole, like it’s been waiting all day.
Brick sprawls on the rug doing math and half-watching a cartoon only kids can parse: a talking gecko with a skateboard and a vendetta against homework.
I should send him to his desk. I don’t. It’s good to share the same room, the same air, and not miss anything for once.
“How’s it going?” I nod at the worksheet.
“Fine.” Pencil bobs, TV murmurs. He doesn’t look up, which tells me more than the word does. Sometimes fine means fine. Sometimes it’s a guard dog wagging its tail.
My mind spins through the day: Riley’s promise; Matthew in the tree; that kingsnake’s tail.
And—like a boomerang I can’t stop—Jasmine.
Not the sparring partner with courtroom eyes.
The woman who showed up with a glass bowl of scones and wrapped my ribs in bandages like it was obvious.
The one who stood at the lake, watched me breathe life back into someone else’s child, and looked like she understood something she hated understanding.
The doorbell shatters the quiet.
Brick and I both twitch toward the hallway. I check the door camera by reflex. Motion alert blooms into a familiar flash of red. Jasmine. On my porch. At nine p.m., in a flowy dress like she stepped out of the heat and into a story she doesn’t want to be in.
I open the door.
“Jasmine?” The night wind rushes in between us.
“I’m sorry.” The words spill out like they’re being chased. “I wanted to do this over the phone, but I was too scared. I thought he was going to come after me again and I just didn’t want—”
“Wait.” I lift a hand, a shiver running under my skin. Her eyes are bright and wild. Whatever this is, it isn’t a zoning debate. “What’s going on?”
“Are you going to let me in?” she asks, voice steadying for the first time, green eyes locked on mine like a lifeline.