Chapter 6
Jax
The coffee's still hot when I knock on Kendall's door at seven AM. I know she's awake—I heard her moving around twenty minutes ago, probably getting ready for damage control after last night's board meeting.
"What?" Her voice comes through the door, muffled but clearly irritated.
"Coffee delivery."
There's a pause, then the sound of multiple locks disengaging. The door opens a few inches, held by the chain, and one suspicious brown eye peers out at me.
"How do you know how I take my coffee?"
"Two sugars, splash of cream. You haven't changed that much."
She studies me for a moment, then closes the door. I hear the chain slide free before she opens it fully. She's wearing yoga pants and an oversized FSU sweatshirt, her hair pulled up in a messy bun. She looks younger, softer, like the girl I fell in love with before everything got complicated.
"This means nothing," she says, taking the coffee.
"Didn't say it did." I hold up my own cup. "Mind if I check your apartment? Make sure nobody's been inside?"
"How would anyone—" She stops, probably remembering the paint on both our vehicles. "Fine. But make it quick. I have three properties to visit today."
Her apartment is exactly what I expected—organized but lived-in. A laptop sits open on the coffee table next to a stack of incident reports. The red dress from last night is draped over a chair, and there's a half-eaten sandwich on the kitchen counter.
"When's the last time you had an actual meal?" I ask, checking the windows.
"I eat."
"Coffee and property management stress don't count as food groups."
"Says the guy who lived on energy drinks and spite through high school."
The casual reference to our past catches us both off guard. She turns away, busying herself with the laptop.
"Everything looks secure," I say, filling the awkward silence. "But you should keep your blinds closed. And maybe—"
A knock at my door interrupts my fashion crisis. I open it to find a woman in her forties looking exhausted but grateful.
"Ms. Greene? I'm Sarah Williams, Mrs. Parsons' niece. I got your message."
"That was fast."
"I was already on my way down. I try to visit Aunt Helen monthly, but work's been crazy. When you called about the goat situation, I drove straight here from my hotel." She steps inside when I gesture. "I wanted to thank you. The staff at Sunset Services told me you've been checking on her daily."
"I noticed she was struggling," Kendall says simply.
"You did more than that. You kept her safe, made sure she ate, even dealt with that goat situation with compassion." Sarah's eyes fill with tears. "I did not know things had gotten so bad. I trusted Sunset Services because Valerie Thornfield recommended them."
I pull out my notepad. "Would you be willing to put that in writing? About Valerie's recommendation?"
Sarah nods. "Absolutely. That woman's husband owns the company, doesn't he? They've been billing me for services they weren't providing."
"We're investigating that," I tell her.
"Good. Aunt Helen's at my hotel now, and we're looking at memory care facilities. Real ones, with actual staff who do their job." Sarah turns back to Kendall. "I owe you so much."
"You don't owe me anything. I just did what anyone would do."
"No," Sarah says firmly. "You did what a good person does. There's a difference."
After Sarah leaves, Kendall stands at her door for a moment, looking lost.
"You okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine." She shakes her head. "I should get ready for work."
"Kendall—"
"Your apartment's across the hall. You can watch my door from there."
It's a dismissal, but a gentle one. I'm about to leave when we hear commotion at the other end of the hallway.
"Yoo-hoo! Kendall dear!"
The Walking Ladies have arrived. All four of them, dressed in their power-walking outfits despite being in an interior hallway. Gladys leads the charge, with Florence, Betty, and Joan close behind.
"We heard about last night," Gladys announces, pushing past me into Kendall's apartment like she owns the place. "Valerie got what was coming to her."
"That woman's been a pain in everyone's rear since she moved here," Florence adds.
"And that poor Mrs. Parsons," Betty sighs. "Though I have to say, the goat story was entertaining. I wish I had seen it in person."
"Ladies," Kendall says, clearly overwhelmed, "I appreciate the support, but—"
"Oh, we're not here about that," Joan says with a grin that can only be described as mischievous. "We're here about him." She points at me.
"Me?"
"Living across the hall. Very convenient." Gladys waggles her eyebrows. "Very romantic."
"It's for protection," Kendall says quickly. "There have been threats."
"Protection." Florence draws out the word. "Is that what kids are calling it these days?"
"I remember when my first husband provided me with 'protection,'" Betty says dreamily. "Nine months later, we had twins."
Kendall's face turns bright red. "It's not like that."
"Of course not, dear," Gladys says, patting Kendall's arm. "Though you should know, the walls in this building are surprisingly thin."
"What she means," Joan clarifies helpfully, "is we'll hear everything."
"Everything," Florence confirms with a wink.
"There's nothing to hear!" Kendall protests.
"Not yet," Betty mutters, and they all giggle like teenagers.
My phone buzzes, saving us from more embarrassing speculation. It's Declan.
Declan: You need to see this. Someone spray painted the side of Building 3 over there.
"I have to go," I tell Kendall, showing her the message. "Lock your door."
"What does it say? The graffiti?"
I hesitate, then show her the photo Declan sent. In large red letters across the building's side: "KENDALL GREENE HAS TO GO."
Her face pales. "That's going to take forever to remove."
"We'll handle it," I promise.
The Walking Ladies crowd around to see the photo.
"That's definitely Brad's handiwork," Gladys declares. "He spray painted obscenities on the tennis court in the RV park last year when they raised his rent."
"You have proof of that?" I ask.
"Oh, honey, everyone knew it was him. He bragged about it at the community pool." Florence shakes her head. "That man's been nothing but trouble since he was knee high to a grasshopper."
"Would you be willing to give statements about that?"
All four ladies nod eagerly. I suspect they’re just happy to be involve.
"We'll come to the station right now," Joan says. "I've been wanting to file a complaint about him anyway. He keeps parking in my spot."
"And he plays his music too loud," Betty adds.
"And he never picks up after his dog," Florence continues. "Except he doesn't have a dog, which makes it even weirder."
"Ladies," I say, pulling out my notepad, "let's start from the beginning."
Twenty minutes later, I have enough ammunition against Brad Hutchins to justify a much closer look at his activities. The Walking Ladies leave with promises to come to the station later, but not before more winking and nudging about the ‘thin walls’.
"I should go deal with the graffiti," Kendall says once we're alone.
"Not alone you’re not."
"Jax—"
"Someone's vandalizing everything associated with you. First your car, then mine, now the building. You don't go anywhere alone. Got it?"
She looks like she wants to argue, but her phone rings. She answers, and I watch her expression shift from annoyed to alarmed.
"What do you mean 'flooded'?" She listens, then grabs her keys. "I'll be right there."
"What's wrong?"
"Building 2. Someone turned on all the faucets in the vacant units. There's water everywhere."
"I'm coming with you."
"You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." I text Declan to meet us there. "This is connected to everything else."
We take my truck, the paint from yesterday still streaking the windshield despite my attempts to clean it. The ride is quiet except for Kendall fielding calls from panicked residents and her maintenance crew.
"Three inches of water in the lobby," she says after hanging up. "This is going to cost thousands."
"Insurance will cover it."
"Maybe. If they don't find a way to blame me for it." She stares out the window. "Valerie's family is associated with the insurance company too."
"Of course they are." I roll my eyes as I steer through the complex.
We pull up to Building 2 to find chaos. Water is streaming out the front doors, and maintenance crews are frantically trying to shut off the main valve. Residents stand on the sidewalk, some still in pajamas, watching their homes flood.
"I need to—" Kendall starts toward the building, but I catch her arm.
"Wait." I scan the crowd, looking for Brad or anyone else who seems too interested in Kendall's arrival. "Let me check it out first."
"People need help now."
"And you can't help if you're hurt. Or worse."
She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my expression stops her. "Fine. But hurry it up."
I wade through the water in the lobby, checking for any obvious hazards. The water's clean, at least—just tap water from the faucets. But the damage is extensive. The carpets are ruined; the baseboards are swelling, and I can hear the sound of multiple faucets still running upstairs.
"Clear," I call back to Kendall.
She immediately takes charge, directing maintenance to shut off water to different sections, organizing residents to move their belongings to dry areas, calling restoration companies. She's in her element, calm and competent despite the crisis.
I'm watching her work when Declan arrives.
"This is definitely connected," he states the obvious, surveying the damage. "Too coordinated to be random."
"Brad?"
"Maybe. But this feels bigger. The graffiti's amateur hour. This?" He gestures at the flooding. "This takes planning and knowhow."
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: This is just the beginning. She quits, or it gets worse. Much. Worse.
I show it to Declan. "They're not even trying to hide it anymore."
"Makes them dangerous," he says. "Desperate people do desperate things."
I look at Kendall, who's now ankle-deep in water, helping an elderly man save his photo albums. Her sweatshirt is soaked, her hair's falling out of its bun, and she looks exhausted. But she's not giving up.
"We need to set up surveillance," I tell Declan. "Full coverage on all her properties."
"That's a lot of manpower."
"Then we get it."
"You really think it's that serious?"
Another text comes through.
Unknown: Next time it won't be water.
"Yeah," I say, forwarding the threat to Captain Ramirez. "I think it's that serious."
The rest of the morning is a blur of water extraction, insurance calls, and damage assessment. By noon, the worst of the flooding is under control, but Kendall looks ready to collapse.
"Come on," I tell her. "You need food and dry clothes."
"I need to—"
"Everything's handled for now. Your team knows what to do and the restoration company is in full swing."
She looks around at the destroyed lobby, the exhausted residents, the massive fans the restoration company is setting up. "This is my fault."
"No, it's not."
"If I'd just quit—"
"Whoever's doing this wins." I turn her to face me. "You don't quit, Kendall. It's not who you are."
She looks up at me, and for a moment, all the walls are down. I see the exhaustion, the fear, and the determination not to break. And underneath it all, something else. Something that makes me want to pull her close and promise everything will be okay.
"Jax," she starts, then stops. We're standing too close, water soaking through our shoes, surrounded by chaos, and all I can think about is how much I want to kiss her.
"Well, well. Isn't this cozy."
We jump apart to find Brad Hutchins standing in the doorway, smirking.
"Protecting and serving, Officer?" He makes air quotes around the words. "Looks more like fraternizing to me."
"Mr. Hutchins," I say, keeping my voice level. "What are you doing here?"
"I own a unit in this building. Just checking on my investment." He looks at the water damage with satisfaction. "Shame about all this. Really hurts the property values and I’m sure the insurance will go up, too."
"Did you have something to do with this?" Kendall demands.
"Careful, Ms. Greene. That sounds like slander." He pulls out his phone, making a show of recording. "I'd hate to add that to the list of complaints against you."
"Get out," I tell him. "This is a crime scene."
"Is it? Has a crime been committed? Or was this just negligent maintenance?" He grins. "Guess we'll find out at the next board meeting. Oh wait, you barely survived the last one."
He leaves, whistling cheerfully. I want to follow him, to slam him against a wall and make him confess to all his crimes. But that's not how this works. We need evidence, not my fists.
"He did this," Kendall says quietly. "Him and Valerie. I just know it."
"Probably. But we need proof."
She laughs bitterly. "Right. Proof. Meanwhile, my buildings are being destroyed, my residents are suffering, and I'm just supposed to wait for proof?"
"No," I say. "You're supposed to let me protect you while we find it."
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'm tired of fighting alone." She gestures at the destroyed lobby. "Obviously, I'm not winning."
"You're not alone," I tell her. "You never were."
Not even an hour later, my phone rings. Captain Ramirez.
"We've got a problem," he says without preamble. "Brad Hutchins just filed a restraining order against you and Kendall. Claims you're harassing him."
"That's ridiculous—"
"I know. But a judge signed it. You can't go within five hundred feet of him."
"He was just here!"
"Yeah, getting evidence for his case. You need to be careful, Jax. This is getting legal now."
I hang up and look at Kendall, who's watching me with worried eyes.
"What now?" she asks.
"Now we play smart," I say. "No more confrontations with Brad. We build our case properly."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, I do my job and keep you safe while you do yours."
She nods, then surprises me by taking my hand. "Thank you. For all of this. I know I haven't been... easy."
"You're worth it," I say without thinking.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't let go of my hand. We stand there in the flooded lobby, water damage all around us, threats mounting, and somehow it feels like the most honest moment we've had in years.
Then her phone rings, breaking the spell. Another crisis at another property. She squeezes my hand once before letting go.
"Back to work," she says.
"I'll drive," I tell her.
As we head to the truck, I catch movement in a window across the street. Someone's watching us, but they duck away before I can see who.
The stakes are rising. The threats are escalating. And I've got a restraining order that limits my ability to investigate the prime suspect.
But I'm not giving up. Not on this case, and definitely not on Kendall.
Not again.