Chapter 31
Bodie
Officer Clark looked up from the front desk, his ever-present crossword folded in half beside the phone. “Got a couple of messages for you, Chief. And some mail on your desk.”
I stretched the kink out of my shoulder. “Anything I need to see before morning?”
“Unless somebody robs the Dollar General in the next hour, no. Quiet day.”
I fixed him with a glare. “You know we don’t ever use the Q word.”
Clark winced. “Sorry, Chief.”
I checked my watch. “I’m off the grid at six sharp unless it’s murder or bank robbery. Got plans with the family tonight.” And I had no intention of missing out on family game night for anything less serious.
Clark snorted. “Copy that.”
I left him to his crossword and headed down the hall, Rubble at my heels.
Light slanted gold from the window when I pushed the door of my office open, and sure enough, a short stack of mail sat square in the middle of my desk blotter.
Utility notices, a flyer for a fundraiser, and one envelope with the state seal.
I didn’t need to open it to know what it was. But I did anyway, sliding a finger under the flap and unfolding the letter. Parole Hearing Scheduled. Wesley Maddox. The date jumped out like it had been written in red.
I sat back in my chair and rubbed the tight muscles in my neck.
It wasn’t a surprise. Emmaline had told me a couple of months ago when Wesley got his notice inside, but seeing it in print was different.
Last year the board had denied him. The whole damned town had been in shambles after the flood, with no stability to come home to.
No wonder they’d said no. This time might be different.
Or it might not. It was hard to say which way the board would vote.
A lot of that would depend on Wesley himself.
I folded the letter, tucked it back in the envelope, and slid it into the bottom drawer. Locked it.
Emmaline and I hadn’t talked about the parole hearing since she’d first mentioned it.
Maybe that was a mistake, but I didn’t want to do anything to encourage her fragile hope of his release until there was reason to think it would stick.
My being notified meant nothing. It was just the next step in the process.
And I didn’t want to do anything to upset this legitimate honeymoon period we’d found ourselves in.
I might be delusional, but it didn’t feel like just sex.
It felt like we were building something real on the foundation of the business arrangement we’d begun with.
Her lingering kiss of greeting when I got home seemed to back that up. With a happy hum, I wrapped my arms tighter around her and sank in to stay awhile. At least until she pulled back on a laugh and tapped my shoulders.
“We’re going to be late!”
“We could skip game night.” My cock was already halfway to ready for alternative plans.
“And miss the chance to decimate your brothers in an Uno war? Not on your life, pal.”
I studied my wife’s flushed cheeks. “How did I not know about this competitive streak of yours?”
“Because it only comes out rarely.” She smacked my ass. “Go on and get changed. I’ll feed Rubble.”
“Fine, fine.” I’d sweet talk her into bed when we got home, because there was no dessert I wanted more than her.
By the time we pulled up at Grandma Elsie’s house, the raucous noise spilling from inside was loud enough to carry clear across the wraparound porch and down to the street.
The familiar creak of the old wooden steps beneath our feet mixed with the symphony of chaos beyond the front door—overlapping shouts, explosive laughter, and what sounded like someone arguing about house rules.
When we stepped through the door into the warmth, the house enveloped us in the comforting scents of buttered popcorn, homemade Chex Mix still warm from the oven, and the faint lingering aroma of Grandma’s famous snickerdoodles from earlier in the day.
The cacophony of voices hit me all at once like a friendly assault.
Colter’s eleven-year-old daughter, Oakleigh, was darting across the living room at breakneck speed with a handful of pretzels clutched in her fist, her ponytail flying behind her as Fletcher chased after her with the desperate intensity of a man whose favorite snacks had been stolen along with his dignity.
Rubble took off behind them, clearly in hopes of fallout, and I let her.
We weren’t working just now. Meanwhile, Gunner was leaning precariously over the dining room table, his long arm stretching toward the ceramic bowl of popcorn in what he thought was a stealthy maneuver, only to get his knuckles rapped by Grandma Elsie’s ever-present wooden spoon—the same one she’d been wielding like a weapon of mass destruction for as long as any of us could remember.
“Hands off, you bottomless pit,” she scolded without even looking up from her cards, but there was unmistakable affection in her tone.
Grandma Elsie sat like a queen holding court at the head of the scarred oak table that had seen decades of family gatherings, three well-worn decks of Uno cards spread before her in perfect formation.
Her weathered hands moved with the practiced precision of a Vegas dealer as she shuffled the colorful deck, the cards making a satisfying whisper as they slid together.
Her silver hair was pulled back in its usual no-nonsense braid, and her sharp eyes surveyed the assembled chaos with the kind of benevolent authority that only came from raising multiple generations of Gibson men.
“Sit your tails down and quit your foolishness,” she commanded, though her lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. “I don’t have all night, and neither do these old bones.”
“The woman lives for this moment every week,” Blair grinned as she tugged Emmaline toward the chair beside her.
Blair’s blonde hair caught the overhead light, and her earrings—little sparkly things that caught every flicker of illumination—danced as she moved.
Her wife Elena, dark-haired and serene, scooted her chair over with a graceful smile to make room, her greeting warm and welcoming as she reached over to squeeze Emmaline’s hand.
Dean had already claimed his usual spot and was complaining about someone supposedly stacking the deck against him before the game had even begun, his voice carrying that familiar note of mock outrage that meant he was settling in for a performance as only a disgruntled middle brother could do.
Gunner was crowing about his inevitable victory while flexing his shoulders like he was preparing for actual combat, and Fletcher was still muttering about payback for some perceived slight from the previous week’s game.
Oakleigh, perched on the very edge of her chair like a coiled spring ready to launch into action, surveyed the table with the serious concentration of a general planning a military campaign.
“Y’all better prepare yourselves,” she announced with the kind of deadly confidence that should have had us all worried, “because I’m winning everything tonight. ”
“That’s awfully big talk for somebody who still has a bedtime, Twig,” Colter shot back, ruffling his daughter’s hair as he reached past her for his drink.
Oakleigh’s response was a smile so innocent it was practically angelic. “This. Is. War,” she declared sweetly, then laid down her first card with such exaggerated theatrical flair that even Grandma Elsie snorted with laughter.
Emmaline was laughing before the first round was even halfway through, and watching her settle into the organized chaos was like watching someone find a missing piece of themselves.
She didn’t hang back or wait to be included; she dove headfirst into the mayhem with a gleam in her eye that spoke of hidden competitive depths.
She teamed up with Blair to drop a devastating Reverse chain on Fletcher that had him groaning and clutching his chest, slapped a perfectly timed Draw Two on Gunner right when he was bragging the loudest about his superior strategy, and let out the most adorable groan of frustration when Dean managed to Skip her turn.
Her cheeks flushed pink with excitement, her gray eyes sparkled with mischief and genuine joy, and the sound of her uninhibited laughter cut straight through me like a blade made of pure happiness.
She didn’t look like someone trying to find her place at this table, working to fit in or prove herself worthy.
She already had a place here. More than once I had to be reminded to take my turn because I kept getting lost in just watching Em, soaking in the sight of her sitting in the middle of my chaotic, loud, wonderful family as if she’d always been here, as if this was right where she belonged.
The game itself was ruthless, every play accompanied by increasingly dramatic commentary and reactions.
Fletcher slammed down a Draw Four with the gravity of a judge delivering a death sentence, and Emmaline only smiled that honeyed, dangerous smile, calmly laid a Reverse on top of it like she was discussing the weather, and followed it up with another Draw Four that made the whole table erupt.
“It’s all about skill,” she said with mock sweetness when Fletcher gaped at her in betrayed shock, and Grandma Elsie cackled so hard she almost fell off her chair.
Blair came close to spitting her drink across the table, Elena was shaking with silent laughter, and Fletcher groaned like his world had just ended in the most spectacular fashion possible.
Oakleigh was all but vibrating with delight, declaring that Emmaline was her new permanent partner in crime.