Chapter 12 Everett
EVERETT
I’m in the shower thinking about the Richardson case I need to rule on this morning—a straightforward contract dispute that should be wrapped up by noon—but my mind keeps drifting back to the Pickens family.
I lost sleep over that last night. Not much, but enough that I noticed. Enough that I’m standing under scalding water trying to wash away the lingering frustration of being utterly powerless in a situation that demands action.
A bunch of teenage punks giving Noah the bird.
Where’s the respect? Where’s the basic human decency?
And I know darn well Daryl was home when I tried to present him with the windshield bill.
I could hear him snickering through the door.
He chose not to answer. He chose to hide in his own house like a coward while his son and his son’s friends run wild in the streets.
It turns out, the Pickens have four children.
And it’s as if the father is just as feral as the boys who have turned that place into Neverland.
I’d hate to think what’s happening with the other kids in the family.
Noah said there were more. What kind of example are they learning from watching their father drink beer and play video games while their mother works herself to exhaustion.
The whole thing makes my blood pressure spike.
I turn off the water just as the bathroom door opens.
Lemon appears, still in her pajamas—one of my old T-shirts that hangs to her knees—and her hair is doing that thing where it flattens on one side from sleeping.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
“I can turn it right back on,” I say, already reaching for her.
Her eyes light up for half a second. “Believe me, I’d much rather do that. But Noah just called. He said he needs you in the front yard ASAP.”
I freeze. “What?”
My brain immediately goes to worst-case scenarios. Someone’s hurt. Someone’s been in an accident. Something has happened. Something I won’t like.
I’m out of the shower, toweling off with barely controlled urgency, throwing on my robe, and heading for the front door before Lemon can say another word.
Carlotta appears in the hallway, bleary-eyed and wearing what appears to be a silk nightgown that’s seen better decades. “What’s all the racket?”
“Noah needs us outside,” Lemon says, scooping up Ozzy, who’s started fussing from his crib.
We all file out the front door.
The spring morning hits me like a postcard. Green lawns, a sky far too bright-blue for this early in the day, birds chirping in the trees as if they’re determined to deafen us, and the heavy scent of pine from the forest of evergreens lining our street.
It’s aggressively peaceful.
Noah stands in my driveway with his arms crossed, still in his running gear, and the expression on his face says he’s ready to commit a felony.
“Are you ready to have your day ruined?” he asks.
“Hold your horses, Foxy,” Carlotta says, shuffling down the porch steps. “This day hasn’t even kicked off with one of Lot’s donuts yet.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, though the sinking feeling in my gut suggests I already know.
Noah points to the front of the house, and we all turn as one.
And then we see them. Eggs. Lots of them. Everywhere.
At least a dozen are dripping and dried on the front windows, smeared across the siding, splattered on the garage door. My sedan looks like it lost a fight with a henhouse. Yolk runs down the windshield in thick yellow streaks. Shells are stuck to the hood.
I look down at the driveway.
White letters are scrawled across the asphalt—chunky, uneven, written in what looks like crushed stone or chalk. The words catch the morning light.
THIS IS WHAT YOU GET
My vision tunnels. Not anger. Not yet. Just cold, crystalline clarity.
This is what I get for calling the police when someone endangered my family. This is what I get for expecting consequences when a rock shattered my wife’s windshield with three children inside.
These kids think this is a warning.
They’re wrong.
This is evidence.
I pull out my phone and take three photos from different angles—wide shot, close-up, and a context with the egged house in the background. Every detail matters when you’re building a case.
“I didn’t get off any easier,” Noah says, nodding toward his cabin.
His place looks worse. Eggs cover every visible surface. His truck is absolutely plastered—windows, bed, tailgate, even the roof. Broken eggshells dot the street between our properties like evidence of some kind of poultry-based war zone.
“Well,” Carlotta says, surveying the damage with a sense of calm that suggests she’s seen worse. “Looks like someone’s been playing chicken with the wrong family. Though I gotta say, the yolk is on them. They’re about to get arrested.” She pauses for effect. “Get it? Yolk?”
“We get it,” Lemon mutters.
“Someone really scrambled to make a mess,” Carlotta continues, clearly enjoying the theme. “Must’ve taken a lot of eggs. That’s some serious fowl play.”
Lemon frowns at her. “Carlotta—”
“I mean, they clearly don’t give a cluck about consequences,” she goes on. “But we all know who the mother cluckers are.” She grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “I say we grab a sawed-off shotgun and get to work.”
“For once,” Noah says, his voice flat and dark, “I’m in agreement with you.”
“Noah!” Lemon gasps.
“I’m sort of in agreement with that, too,” I say, staring at the mess dripping down my house—my home, where my wife and children sleep, where we’re supposed to be safe—and feeling that cold rage settle back into my chest.
I look toward the Pickens house just below the hillside. I can’t see it from here, but I know exactly where it is. And I know exactly who did this.
“This is vandalism,” Lemon says, bouncing Ozzy, who’s now fascinated by a bird in the tree. “We can press charges, right?”
“I’m already planning to,” Noah says. “Of course, I’ll check both of our security cameras.
There’s no way they could have evaded them all.
Then I’ll stop by their place in another cruiser this morning.
Hopefully, Tammy will be home, too. She deserves to know what her husband’s parenting style is producing. ”
I nod slowly. “I’ll let you take the first step.”
“What’s the second step?” Lemon asks, looking between us.
I meet Noah’s eyes. We’re thinking the same thing. I can see it in his expression, the same controlled fury, the same desire for consequences that actually matter.
“I’m filing a civil suit for property damage, and I have a few colleagues who owe me favors.
This is going to cost Daryl every penny he doesn’t have.
” I adjust my robe, wishing I were in a suit so I’d feel more like the judge I am and less like a man standing in his driveway in sleepwear.
“He thinks he can hide behind his door and let his kids run wild? He’s about to learn that actions have consequences.
Legal, expensive, life-altering consequences. ”
Carlotta lets out a low whistle. “Sexy’s getting serious.”
“Methodical,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
Lemon looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“I just hope Tammy opens her eyes to what’s happening when she’s at work,” she says quietly.
“She will,” Noah says. “Because I’m going to make sure she knows exactly what her husband has been up to while she’s away.”
I nod. “You handle the criminal charges. I’ll handle the civil suit. Between the two of us, we’ll make sure Daryl understands he picked the wrong family to mess with.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” Carlotta asks.
“Then we escalate,” Noah says simply.
“To what?” Lemon asks.
My mouth curves slightly, and it isn’t a friendly smile. It’s the one I use in court right before someone’s life takes a hard turn.
“Let’s just say I have friends at the county assessor’s office, the building inspector’s office, and the zoning commission.
That house is a rental, and I’m willing to bet it’s not up to code.
If Daryl wants to play games, I’ll show him what happens when a judge starts asking questions about property violations. ”
Noah nods approvingly. “Legal pressure from all sides. I like it.”
“It’s not about revenge,” I say, though we all know it absolutely is. “It’s about making sure he understands that there are adults in this neighborhood who won’t tolerate his negligence.”
Lemon shifts Ozzy to her other hip. “I can’t decide if I should be terrified or turned on right now.”
“Both are acceptable,” I tell her.
Carlotta cackles. “Now that’s the kind of payback I can get behind! Legal, calculated, and with enough paperwork to make that deadbeat dad wish he’d just answered the door.”
The sun climbs higher, birds keep chirping, and somewhere down the way, Daryl Pickens has no idea that he just declared war on the wrong family.
He threw eggs at my house.
I’m about to throw the entire legal system at his.