Chapter 5 Everett #2
Noah reaches my side and takes in the scene with the economy of movement that comes from years of reading situations in the blink of an eye. I give him the thirty-second summary, low and clipped, and watch his jaw tighten the same way mine did.
We’re both thinking the same thing. This could have been so much worse.
“We’re going to need the name of whoever threw that rock,” Noah says, all business.
Daryl laughs. “Run along and play hall monitor somewhere else, boys. I’ll handle everything here.”
He won’t handle it. We all know he can’t handle it. I have a feeling this man hasn’t handled anything in years except his TV remote and his beer supply. His kid is standing right there, watching his father dismiss two law enforcement officials like we’re inconvenient door-to-door salesmen.
What kind of lesson is that?
“Does your wife know about this party?” I ask, keeping my voice level. It takes effort.
Something flickers across Daryl’s face, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. And that’s exactly when it hits me that his wife may no longer be living.
“Tammy works nights,” he says, defensive now. And I’ll admit, I breathe a sigh of relief that there is a Mrs. “She’s a labor and delivery nurse. Someone’s gotta be here with the kids.”
Being here and supervising are apparently two different concepts in his world. I wonder if Tammy knows what being here looks like when she’s at work saving lives. I wonder if she’d be proud of her husband right now or their guests.
Probably not.
“Listen,” Daryl’s tone shifts slightly. He’s trying for reasonable now that he’s realized we’re not leaving. “The kids were just having a little fun. It’s Sunday night. They’re just blowing off some steam. No harm meant. I appreciate you stopping by—”
“No harm meant?” I growl. “My three children were in that car. My wife was behind that wheel. Her mother was in the passenger seat. No harm meant doesn’t change the fact that harm almost happened.”
He moves to close the door, but Noah shoves his boot in to block it.
“We’re not done,” Noah says quietly. His low tone is far more threatening than yelling.
“Get the hell off my property.” Daryl’s false civility evaporates. He shoves the door closed—or tries to. Noah already has his weight against it.
Inside, the boys erupt into fresh peals of laughter. They think this is downright hilarious. They think this is a show.
“Come on.” I pull Noah away just as the door thunders shut with a slam.
“We should leave before we do something we’ll regret,” I say.
The two of us walk away because staying there won’t accomplish anything except getting us both arrested for disturbing the peace.
We need to regroup. We can’t solve this by forcing our way into the house, much as I’d like to. As much as every cell in my body is screaming at me to grab that beer out of Daryl’s hand and make him understand what could’ve happened tonight.
“Daryl won’t be laughing when your insurance adjuster sends him the bill for that windshield,” Noah mutters once we’re at the curb.
“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” I say, glaring at the house as the music turns up ten times louder than it was to begin with.
Noah growls at the vibrating door as if it personally offended him. “Don’t worry, I’ll interrogate them until I get the perpetrator’s name. And then I’ll lock whoever that is up to teach him a lesson.”
“And I’ll throw the book at him,” I say with just as much bite. “In fact, I’ll make sure he never gets out. That should teach the rest of them a lesson, too.”
We’re baiting each other now. Feeding the frustration. Both of us know we can’t actually lock up a teenager for throwing a rock—not unless the DA wants to press charges, which they won’t for something this minor—but saying it helps. Saying it makes the powerlessness feel slightly less suffocating.
Because that’s what this is, a powerless situation on our end. I’m a judge, and he’s a detective and we can’t do a damn thing except file a report and hope insurance covers it.
Noah shakes his head. “Remind me again why we can’t arrest stupidity.”
“Because if we could,” I say, “that house would be empty by morning.”
We both stare at the property as the music thumps under our feet and through our chest cavities. Faces peer out at us through windows, still laughing, still filming, still treating this like content for whatever social media hell they’re planning to upload to.
None of them understands how close they came tonight. How a split-second difference could have turned their stupid prank into vehicular manslaughter. Negligent homicide. Up to five counts.
“We’ll follow up tomorrow,” I say finally. “File a report. Get the video footage from the neighbors if any of them have security cameras. Find out which kid threw it.”
“And then?”
“And then I’ll make sure they all regret it.” I turn toward my car. “One way or another.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I didn’t spend fifteen years on the bench learning how to navigate the legal system just to let some punk kid get away with nearly killing my family.
I drive home slower than usual. Giving myself time to let the anger cool to something manageable. By the time I pull into our driveway, my hands are steady on the wheel.
Steady. Controlled. Exactly how a husband and father should be.
But underneath, I’m still furious.
I head inside and find that Lemon already has the twins down, and Lyla Nell has already been tucked in as well. She’s standing in the kitchen with tea she’s not drinking, staring at nothing.
I pull her against me, and I can feel her shaking.
“They’re kids,” she says into my chest. “They’re just stupid kids.”
“Stupid kids who could’ve killed you.”
“But they didn’t.”
“But they could have.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Lemon, they could have.”
She pulls back and sees something in my face that makes her go still. “Everett. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing that won’t stand up in court.” I kiss her forehead, breathe in the vanilla scent of her hair, remind myself she’s here. She’s safe. They’re all safe. “Get some sleep, Lemon. I’ll handle it.”
I mean it as comfort. But the look she gives me suggests she knows exactly what “handle it” means in my vocabulary.
And she’s not wrong.