Chapter 16 Everett
EVERETT
Morning comes later than usual for me, which is a small mercy considering Lemon and I had a very nice night that more than made up for the disaster at the Pickens house yesterday evening.
I’m not elaborating. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, and a judge certainly doesn’t provide testimony about what happens in his own bedroom.
But let’s just say I slept better than I have in weeks, and when I woke up with Lemon’s hair in my face and one of the twins using my ribs as a trampoline, I didn’t even mind.
Now it’s chaos o’clock—which, in our house, is any time between six a.m. and midnight.
I’ve already called and arranged for a professional cleaning service to come out this afternoon and power wash the dried eggs off both my property and Noah’s.
The woman on the phone didn’t even blink when I explained the situation.
Apparently, vandalism-by-poultry is more common than I thought.
She quoted me a price that made me wince, but I’d pay triple if it meant erasing the evidence of teenage delinquency from my garage door.
“Lyla Nell, arms up,” Lemon says, wrestling our daughter into a pink T-shirt with a cartoon unicorn on it. “We’re going to be late for school.”
“I no late!” Lyla Nell protests, wriggling like a small, determined eel. “I da boss! Teacher say I da helper, Lottie!”
Lemon shoots me a look that’s equal parts pride and concern. “Everett, she’s been saying things like this all morning. Yesterday, she told me she organized the snack station and fixed the block area because it was all wrong.”
I button my shirt, miraculously free of baby spit-up for once, and crouch down to Lyla Nell’s level. She’s got Lemon’s sweet charm, Noah’s green eyes, and a personality that’s somehow more intense than both of theirs combined.
“Did you have fun listening to the teacher?” I ask.
“Teacher listens to me,” she says proudly as she jabs her thumb to her chest.
Lemon shakes her head. “Lyla Nell, did you boss the other kids around?”
“I big helper!” she insists with her tiny hands on her hips. “They not know what to do! So I has to show them!”
I bite back a smile and glance up at Lemon. “Don’t worry. She’s doing fine. She’s going to be commanding corporations one day. This isn’t a big deal.”
“She’s two,” Lemon says.
“Exactly. By the time she’s three, she’ll have a strategic plan and a business model.”
Lemon swats my shoulder, but she’s smiling.
Across the kitchen, Carlotta’s perched at the table in a silk robe that’s seen better decades, spooning yogurt into her mouth while Ozzy gurgles happily in his bouncer and Corbin gnaws on a teething ring like it personally offended him.
“You know,” Carlotta says, her eyes glinting with hints of something nefarious, “I heard through the grapevine—and by grapevine, I mean I eavesdropped on you two last night—that Sexy and Foxy had quite the adventure at the Pickens house.”
“We don’t talk about that,” I say flatly.
“Oh, but we should.” She waves her spoon like a conductor’s baton. “Two grown men, one squad car, and a house full of teenage hooligans who laughed you right out the door. It’s like a bad cop show, except funnier because it’s real.”
“Carlotta,” Lemon warns.
“What? I’m just saying, if you two had let me come along, I could’ve handled it. I know how to deal with punk kids. You threaten their internet privileges. You tell them you’ll call their probation officer. You seduce the dad and then—”
“No,” I cut in. “Absolutely not. We’re keeping this legal, safe and sane.”
“Legal is boring.”
“Legal keeps me employed and out of jail,” I counter.
“Details.”
Lemon finishes getting Lyla Nell dressed and moves on to the twins, efficiently changing Corbin’s diaper while I grab Ozzy and do the same. We’ve become a well-oiled machine of baby maintenance—pass the wipes, dodge the flailing legs, and celebrate when no one urinates mid-change.
“I still think,” Carlotta says, “that we should do something about those hooligans. Something memorable. Like fill their car with—”
“Think legal, Carlotta,” Lemon sings.
“I didn’t even finish!”
“I don’t need you to,” she says. “The answer is no.”
“That’s a double no from me,” I concur.
She huffs and returns to her yogurt, muttering something about how the justice system is broken, and in her day, people solved problems with brass knuckles and charm.
I finish with Ozzy, pass him to Lemon, and grab my suit jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m going to check the front of the house. Make sure we didn’t get hit with anything else overnight.”
“Be careful,” Lemon says, bouncing Ozzy on her hip. “I wouldn’t put it past them to escalate.”
“Neither would I.”
I head for the front door, already mentally cataloging the things I need to accomplish today—court at nine, a meeting with the DA at eleven, a follow-up on the cleaning service, maybe swing by Noah’s later to coordinate next steps on the Pickens situation.
But I should probably check to see if the front lawn has been set on fire.
I reach for the doorknob.
The door swings open.
And the world explodes into glitter.
I glance up to find an empty paint bucket rigged above the door, rocking back and forth, and what must have been several pounds of glitter dumped directly onto my head.
It’s in my hair, coating my suit, filling my pockets, sticking to my eyelashes.
I inhale and immediately regret it—glitter invades my mouth, my nose, maybe my lungs.
I stand there, frozen, covered head to toe in what appears to be craft-store-grade chaos in seventeen different shades of pink, purple, and blue.
Behind me, Lyla Nell shrieks with delight. “DADDY SPARKLY!”
She starts clapping and jumping, absolutely losing her mind with joy as if I’ve just performed the greatest magic trick in human history.
Carlotta appears in the doorway, takes one look at me, and doubles over laughing so hard that no sound comes out. When she finally catches her breath, she wipes tears from her eyes and wheezes.
I shake my head, big mistake, as glitter flies everywhere. “Do not. Say. A word.”
“Too late!” Carlotta cackles. “I’m saying all the words! Speaking of words, have you ever read those books where the vampires sparkle? Hey, Lot? I think Sexy here might have fangs!”
Lemon rushes over, eyes wide, trying very hard not to laugh but failing miserably. “Everett—are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I brush glitter off my jacket. It doesn’t help. It never helps. Glitter is eternal. Glitter is a curse. “I’m just glad the boys weren’t here. If glitter got in their eyes—”
“They’d be fabulous,” Carlotta finishes. “But also, yes, probably screaming.” She snaps a few pictures of me. “Sexy, you’re sparkling like a New Year’s Eve party gone wrong.”
“Or gone right,” Lemon teases while biting down a smile.
I step fully outside, still shedding glitter like some kind of sad, sparkly molting bird, and try to assess the damage.
The bucket is lying on the porch, a piece of fishing line still attached to the doorframe.
It was rigged. Deliberately. By someone who clearly thought this through.
And it doesn’t take a genius for me to guess who.
I’m about to head back inside to shower off approximately three pounds of craft supplies when I hear footsteps pounding across the street.
Noah jogs up the driveway, takes one look at me, and stops dead.
His mouth twitches. “You look—”
“Don’t.”
“Like a very masculine fairy.”
I growl his way.
He loses the battle and grins. “I’m guessing the Pickens kids struck again.”
“Unless you have another theory for why I’m currently coated in enough glitter to outfit every preschool in the nation, yes.”
“Well.” Noah’s grin fades. “It looks like both of us won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
I blink glitter out of my eyes. “Why aren’t you going anywhere?”
“Someone let the air out of all four of my tires.” His jaw tightens. “Completely deflated. I’d need a tow truck or four portable air compressors to even think about driving that thing.”
We stand there in my driveway, me covered in glitter, him about to lose it with barely contained rage, and something in me snaps.
“That’s it.” My voice comes out low and calm, a sure sign I’m furious. “This has to end. This has to end now.”
Noah nods slowly. “Agreed.”
Behind us, Carlotta leans against the doorframe, still grinning. “Ooh, this is getting good. What’s the plan, boys? Stakeout? Citizen’s arrest? Tactical glitter bomb retaliation?”
“Something legal,” I say through gritted teeth. “We’re keeping this legal, remember.” Although my zest for all things legal is quickly starting to fade.
“We’re keeping it legal for now,” Noah adds darkly, and it lets me know his zest for all things legal is fading fast, too.
I meet his eyes, and he meets mine.
Whatever we’re about to do, it’s going to be methodical, calculated, and completely by the book.
But those kids are about to learn what happens when you declare war on a judge and a detective who’ve officially run out of patience.