Living in Sin

This book, like those before, remains dedicated to all of my patrons over at

Patreon, who supported me at a dollar a chapter (and sometimes more) as I

composed the third through now eighth book of this series. You were my beta

testers, and your encouragement, feedback, and error reporting were

invaluable to me.

Living in Sin, Copyright © 2025 by Alan G. Steiner. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means

including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only

exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover designed by Alan Steiner

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Alan Steiner

Email me at alsteiner237@gmail.com

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: November 2025

Amazon self-publishing

Author’s Note

This novel offers a realistic look at American law enforcement culture in general—and

California law enforcement culture in 2025 in particular. I want to be clear up front: I am not a

law enforcement officer. I have never worn the badge. But I grew up in a cop household—my

father worked for a department very much like the Heritage County Sheriff’s Department from

the 1960s through the late 1980s—and I’ve spent my entire adult life working side by side with

cops, medics, nurses, and the people who keep society from spinning off its axis.

I know how they talk. I know how they think. And I know how they live.

This is their story—for good or for evil, with all the contradictions, gallows humor, blunt

honesty, and deeply human flaws that come with a life lived at the edge of crisis. The people in

this novel are not stereotypes or political statements. They are human beings trying to survive

their work, raise their kids, fall in and out of love, and make sense of the chaos around them.

They are the thin blue line that separates all of us from savagery in the streets.

And part of being human—part of being alive—is sexuality.

Most fiction sanitizes that. It skims the surface, implies, tiptoes, or fades to black because

we’re told that describing sex in honest detail somehow makes a story “less serious.”

I disagree.

This book isn’t pornography. It isn’t written to titillate for its own sake. The sexuality of

the characters is presented the same way their fear, anger, loyalty, love, grief, and joy are

presented—as an integral part of their emotional journey. Their sex lives are woven into who

they are, what they’ve survived, and how they cope with the world around them. Ignoring that

would be dishonest.

This story is not politically correct.

It isn’t designed to make everyone comfortable.

It is designed to be real.

If reading about people acting on one of the strongest drives in human behavior—

sometimes beautifully, sometimes messily, but always authentically—isn’t for you, I

genuinely encourage you to stop here.

But if you want to see the full spectrum of what makes these characters human, flawed,

passionate, and alive… then read on.

I think you’ll enjoy the journey we’re about to take together.

— Alan Steiner

Chapter 1

 

WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 

Judith Linden was the first to notice the large rental truck coming to a stop at the house across the street. This was not terribly surprising. She was usually the first to notice anything that occurred in the upscale suburban neighborhood she called home. As President of the Southern Gardenville Homeowner’s Association, and as neighborhood block captain, and as the unofficial though highly premium source of all neighborhood gossip, not much escaped her sharp eyes and ears. Before the rumbling of the engine even died, she was at her living room window, peering out to see what there was to see, her mind ready to catalogue any information she could later share with the other inhabitants of Morning Cove Way.

The truck was a large one – the largest you could rent with a standard driver’s license. It had parked at the curb with the back end next to the driveway. Another vehicle had pulled up with it – a large, four-wheel drive pickup, about six years old, that had dents and scratches all along the front and sides. Judith had seen this truck before, several times in fact. It belonged to the young couple that had been in and out of the house across the street over the past two months. She had suspected that they were buying it. Her suspicions were now confirmed. The back of the pickup was filled with furniture, boxes, and other materials that had been tied down with rope. Judith wrinkled her nose at this sight. They weren’t even using professional movers to bring their belonging to their new home? What kind of people were they, anyway?

The doors to both vehicles opened. The man stepped out of the large truck. He was indeed the man she’d seen in and out of the house lately, ever since the “for sale” sign had been taken down. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, much too young, in her opinion, to afford a house in this exclusive neighborhood. About six feet tall and fairly average looking, his brown hair was cut very short, almost bald, as was the style among the young kids these days (a style she most certainly didn’t approve of – her son was forced to wear his hair long). He was wearing a pair of tattered blue jean shorts and a light colored T-shirt with the logo of a Mexican beer on the front. The shirt was not tucked into his waist, she noted with distaste, but was instead hanging several inches down. It was stained with sweat and grime and looked like something she herself would use to wash her counters with.

The woman got out of the pickup. She was taller than average for a female, nearly six feet it appeared. Though she was not fat, she certainly was not petite either. She was just a large girl, Amazonian almost, maybe the same age as the man, maybe a little younger. Her face was pretty and her hair was a rich brunette, though cut much shorter than Judith thought respectable. It barely came down to her neck. She had a half shirt on that showed her tanned stomach off and the glint of a belly button ring was plainly visible. The shorts she was wearing were black spandex so tight they were obscene. Her legs were long and well muscled, obviously advertising the fact that the woman exercised them regularly.

“White trash,” Judith mumbled to herself, giving a small shake of the head. The Livingstons - who had been the previous occupants of the house – had sold their home to a couple of banjo playing losers. It was the buyer’s market that had caused this, she told herself. Interest rates were so low that seemingly anyone could get a home loan these days. Whatever happened to the good old days when standards had been maintained in real estate sales?

Judith saw that the man and woman were not the only occupants of the two vehicles. From the cab of the large truck a young girl and an even younger boy jumped out excitedly, trotting immediately up to the front door. The boy was about seven, maybe eight, the girl probably around nine or ten. They jumped up and down excitedly as they looked over their new home. The woman said something to both of them and they calmed down. The boy took a key and ran up to the front door. A moment later he opened the door and went inside.

Judith continued to watch as the man and woman conversed for a few moments and then opened up the back of the large truck. They extended the metal ramp and then began the process of unloading things. They brought out boxes and bags one by one and carried them inside before coming back for more. The two children pitched in to help, each being handed smaller items from time to time.

After maybe twenty minutes of watching them move their belongings into the home, Judith’s attention was diverted by the appearance of Samantha Belkin, one of the other neighbors, walking to the communal mailbox installed between Judith’s house and the house next door. Sensing an opportunity to check out the new neighbors a little further and to perhaps spread a little gossip, she quickly stood up and put on her fashionable leather sandals. After pausing to grab the mailbox key, she opened the door and stepped out, moving quickly and reaching the mailbox at the same time as Samantha.

“Hi, Sam,” she said cheerfully. “Fancy meeting you out here.”

Samantha gave a slight smile. “Hi, Judith,” she greeted. “Having a good day?”

“I can’t complain,” she told her. “Can’t complain.”

Samantha nodded and turned her attention to her mailbox, opening it and removing a sheaf of envelopes and advertising flyers. She was in her mid-thirties, a small, petite blonde woman with bright blue eyes. Still attractive despite having produced three children, her husband was nevertheless neglecting her severely, both in the emotional department and in the sexual fulfillment department. A lawyer who put in eighty hour weeks on a routine basis, even when he was home he locked himself in his office and spent his leisure time downloading pornography and masturbating to it.

This was information that had come to Judith via Samantha’s best friend Michelle O’Riley, who lived three doors down and who had confided the information to Judith during a day of lounging at the latter’s pool and drinking wine. Judith had of course told a few of the other neighborhood women this story – after all, it was too good to keep to one’s self, wasn’t it? Unfortunately those women had told a few other women – this despite Judith’s admonishment to keep the information private – and within a matter of days, the entire block knew. This had caused a bit of a strain between Judith and Samantha, although why this should be so when it was Michelle who had blabbered the information Judith certainly couldn’t fathom.

“Did you see we have new neighbors?” Judith asked when it seemed that Samantha was going to simply collect her mail and leave without conversation.

“Yeah,” she said with a nod. “I saw that.”

“Don’t they just look like complete white trash?” she asked. “I mean, look at them. They’re moving their own belongings in. Can’t they afford movers?”

Samantha shrugged. “They look okay to me,” she said. “A little young maybe. The kids are cute.”

“Those kids look like troublemakers to me,” Judith opined. “They’ll probably run wild all day and night and then bring down the regional test scores at the elementary school. I told you my daughter’s class got the highest scores in the school, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you may have mentioned that a time or two,” Samantha replied.

Judith looked the new neighbors up and down again, her eyes passing from the woman, who was carrying in an end table, to the man, who was returning to the truck for another load, and then over the two children, who were carrying couch pillows. “I’m telling you,” she told Samantha. “This real estate slump we’re in is just killing us. Look at what kind of people are being allowed to move into our neighborhood. Why, I remember a day when people like that wouldn’t have been able to even mow our lawns. Now they’re able to buy a house here, to live among us.” She shook her head at the travesty of it. “I wonder if they even did a credit check on them. Do you suppose things have gotten so bad that they don’t even do proper credit checks anymore?”

“I don’t think they look quite that terrible,” Samantha said. “Sure, they’re a little younger than most of us, but other than that, what’s wrong with them?”

“What’s wrong with them?” she asked, as if speaking to the hopelessly naïve. “Why, just look at them. Him with his hair cut short like he’s a teenager in high school. Her with her stomach bare and her belly button ring. And those clothes they’re wearing. They look like they came right out of the thrift store.” She paused as a thought struck her. “My God, what if they bring cockroaches to the neighborhood? Or lice? What if those kids infect the whole school with some kind of vermin?”

“Vermin?” Samantha said incredulously. “You think they have vermin?”

“You can never tell with those kind of people,” Judith said. “Take my word for it, they don’t belong here. They’re different. I can tell just by looking at them.”

“Maybe that’s what we need around here,” Samantha suggested whimsically. “Someone a little different for once.”

Judith looked at her the way one looks at someone she suspects of mental illness. “Different may be good in other neighborhoods, not this one,” she said firmly. “When one pays as much as we have for our houses one expects that only a certain caliber of person will be allowed to take up residence next door. These people look like common thugs, like riff-raff. They will be inviting their low-life friends into our neighborhood. Their children will be going to our schools, socializing with our children and infecting them with whatever perverted values they’ve been taught.”

Samantha had to fight to roll her eyes. “That’s an awful lot of assumptions about people you haven’t even met,” she said.

Judith glared at her. “I’m a very perceptive woman,” she said. “Trust me on this. Those people will be nothing but trouble for this neighborhood. Nothing but trouble.”

Samantha shrugged. “I’ll reserve my judgment until I see some evidence of that. In the meantime, I think I’ll go introduce myself.” She closed her mailbox and put her mail under her arm. She then turned and began heading across the street.

Judith watched her go for a few seconds and then hurried after her. This was too good of an opportunity to pass up, a chance to begin gathering some real intelligence on these trashy people so she could present it at the next homeowner’s association meeting (and, of course, start spreading it around to the rest of the neighborhood).

Samantha gave her the briefest of sour looks when she saw she was joining her but quickly hid it. She put a friendly smile on her face as they walked across the hot pavement to the back of the rental truck. The man and the woman had both just returned from the house and were walking up the ramp, apparently intending to start grappling with an easy chair. They both looked up, their faces sweaty from the August heat, which was already considerable despite the fact that it was only ten o’clock in the morning.

“Hi there,” Samantha greeted, her voice friendly and a little timid, her blue eyes shining brightly. “You two must be our new neighbors.”

The two of them passed a look among themselves, an uninterpretable look, but one that was obviously relaying some sort of message. For a moment it looked as if they were going to ignore the intrusion and simply go back to work, but finally they stepped down out of the back of the truck, utilizing the bumper instead of the ramp.

“That we are,” the man said, his voice monotone, no smile upon his face.

“We just got the keys today,” the woman said, her voice with the slightest hint of animation, but only the slightest.

“I’m Samantha Belkin,” Samantha said, holding out her dainty hand. “I live across the street and a couple doors down. We’ll be sharing a mailbox.”

“I see,” the man said. “I’m Scott Dover. You probably don’t want to shake hands with

me though. I’m a little grimy from moving.” He held up his hand, which was indeed smeared with oil and dirt and various other stains.

“Oh… of course,” Samantha said with a slight giggle, putting her hand back down.

The woman used the back of her hand to wipe sweat from her brow and then stepped forward. “I’m Margaret Winslow,” she said. “People call me Maggie though.”

Judith looked sharply at them, her eyes almost boring into them. They didn’t have the same last name? She looked down at their left hands for the first time. Sure enough, neither was wearing a wedding ring, nor did they have any tan lines associated with such items. The man was wearing nothing but a watch. The woman had only a silver ring on her thumb for jewelry. They were not married to each other! What typical white trash! This was even worse than she had thought. She looked back up at their faces and saw they were both staring at her expectantly and perhaps a bit impatiently, waiting for her to introduce herself. She had the curious sensation they both knew exactly what she was thinking. She forced a neutral expression onto her face. “Uh… I’m Judith,” she said. “Judith Linden. I live across the street there, in the large house.”

“How do you do, Judith?” Maggie said politely. “Do they call you Judy?”

“No,” she said firmly. “They do not.”

The two of them passed another look. “Okay then,” Maggie said. “Judith it is.”

“You can call me Sammie though,” Samantha piped up after casting her own dirty look in Judith’s direction. “That’s what all my friends call me.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Scott told her.

Samantha either hadn’t picked up on the differing last names or was pretending not to have. Judith wasn’t sure but suspected the former. She was a blonde, after all. She continued to smile and beam at the two undesirables. “Where are you folks from?” she asked them. “Are you new to the Heritage area?”

“No,” Maggie said with a shake of the head. “We’ve both lived here all our lives. We’re just uprooting and moving to a different part.”

“Then you’re used to this horrible heat we have here,” Samantha said.

“Yes,” Scott said, giving a slight nod. “We’re quite used to it.”

“And what is it you do for a living?” Judith asked, seeing an opening to start gathering some real dirt. Of course, whatever they said would probably be a lie – they were undoubtedly involved in some shady or even criminal enterprise – but the rules of gossip did demand she get their alleged answer.

“We both work for the county,” Scott told her.

“For the county?” Judith said, raising her eyebrows a tad. “What do you do for them?”

“Just a civil service job,” Maggie said dismissively. She shrugged. “It pays the bills.”

“Yes it does,” Scott agreed. “And it let us buy this house in this nice neighborhood.”

“How fortunate,” Judith said sourly, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her tone.

“Yes,” Maggie said, looking directly at Judith. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“You both have to work then?” Samantha said, obviously pondering such a tragedy.

Scott chuckled. “That’s right.”

“How… uh… nice,” Samantha told them. “I mean… that… you know… that both of you can contribute to the household.”

“Uh… yeah,” Maggie said. “So, you don’t work then?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head enthusiastically. “Most of the women in the neighborhood are stay-at-home-moms.”

“Of course you are,” Scott said.

Judith glared at him. Was he making fun of their lifestyle? “We’re very traditional in this neighborhood,” she said. “We believe a mother should be devoted to raising her children and instilling them with conservative values.”

Scott shrugged, seemingly unfazed by her stern tone. “To each their own,” he said. “That’s what makes America great, isn’t it?”

“That’s an interesting point of view,” Samantha piped up before Judith had a chance to answer.

“Well thank you, Sammie,” Scott told her, giving a smile that was borderline flirtatious.

Samantha actually blushed, much to Judith’s shock and amazement. “I always try to see all points of view.”

“As well you should,” Maggie said.

Right then the two children came back out of the house, the boy in the lead. “Scott,” the boy said as they trod across the lawn to the back of the truck. “I put the water bottles in the ice chest like you said, but I couldn’t reach the top of the cupboard to put away those glasses.”

“And he tried really hard, Daddy,” the girl said. “He even tried to climb up on that little ladder.”

“That’s okay,” Scott said, smiling at the two of them. “You guys are doing good. Why don’t you finish putting those couch cushions on now?”

“Okay,” the boy said. “C’mon, Katie!” He turned and ran back towards the front door.

“I get to do the red ones!” the girl said, running after him.

Judith, of course, noticed right away the boy had called Scott by his first name, which meant he wasn’t the father. “Those are your… uh… children?” she asked shrewdly.

“Well, the little boy is mine,” Maggie said. “His name is Christopher. He’ll be seven in December.”

“Katie’s mine,” Scott said, looking after her affectionately. “She’ll be ten next January.”

Judith could no longer contain herself. “So, you two aren’t… aren’t married?” she asked.

They looked at each other again, seeming to find amusement in this question. “No,” Scott said. “We’re not married. We’re not even a couple.”

“You’re not a couple?” Judith asked. “What do you mean?”

“We’re just friends,” Maggie said, smiling sweetly, as if she knew she was shocking her new neighbors to the core and was relishing it. “Friends who decided to buy a house together.”

For perhaps the first time in her life, Judith found herself speechless. Friends? Buying a house together? Each with their own child? That was unheard of! Absurd! And they were moving into this neighborhood? Would be sending those children to school with her children? What was the world coming to?

“That’s uh… very interesting,” Samantha said with apparent sincerity. “Then uh… you’re both… you know… divorced?”

“No,” Scott said. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Judith managed to stammer. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve never been married,” Maggie said sweetly. “Christopher came from a little fling I had once.” She looked at Judith and winked. “You know how it is, right?”

“I most certainly do not!” Judith replied, her mouth agape now.

“And as for me,” Scott told her in a matter-of-fact tone, “I was married once. That’s where Katie came from. But it didn’t work out. We got divorced a few years after she was born.”

“You have partial custody then?” Samantha asked.

Scott shook his head. “Katie’s all mine now.” He leaned closer, looking around conspiratorially and then whispering, “Her mother is dead.”

This time even Samantha had the decency to look shocked. “Dead?” she asked slowly.

Scott nodded. “It was a tragic thing,” he said. “Quite sudden and unexpected. But then, now I have full custody of her, so I guess it worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

Both women were now speechless.

“Anyway,” Scott said, standing up straight and putting a smile on his face, “thanks for welcoming us to the neighborhood. We really need to get this truck unpacked now.”

“Yes,” Maggie added. “We want to get it done before it gets too hot.”

“Oh… umm, sure,” Samantha stammered, licking her lips nervously. “Well… we’ll see you around, I uh… I guess. Won’t we, Judith?”

Judith simply nodded, her lips unable to form any words. A moment later Scott and Maggie turned back to the truck and began to discuss among themselves their plan to wrestle the easy chair into the house. Judith and Samantha stared at them for a moment and then, with a look of consternation, they retreated, heading back across the street to rally at the mailbox.

 

*****

 

Once the sides of the truck were safely blocking the two neighborhood women’s view of them, and once they were sure the sound would not carry to their position, Scott and Maggie both burst out into hysterical laughter. They chortled, cackled, and snickered for the better part of a minute, until tears were running down their faces.

“Holy fucking shit, that was funny,” Scott said when he was capable of speech again. “Did you see the look on that snobby bitch’s face when I said Katie’s mom was dead?”

“Priceless,” Maggie giggled, wiping at a tear. “You actually managed to trump my ‘little fling’ comment, you asswipe.”

“I wasn’t trying to outdo you,” he said. “Was just adding the two to the one-two knockout.” He shook his head, breaking into a fresh bout. “Damn, did you see them run away?”

“Like their asses were on fire,” she agreed. “And you didn’t even lie, either.”

“I’m nothing if not truthful,” he said. And this was a fact. Diane, his ex-wife, the mother of Kaitlyn, his daughter, was in fact dead and her death had worked out most fortunately as far as child custody went.

“You think we went too far?” Maggie asked.

Scott thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “Nope,” he told her. “If I’m not mistaken, that Judith bitch is one of the prominent members of this snooty-ass neighborhood. That means she’s probably the bitch with the loudest mouth.”

“Undoubtedly,” Maggie said.

“She’ll start spreading that story around within the next few minutes. I bet she’s on the goddamned phone right now. With any luck, she’ll convince all the little rich housewives and professional yuppie assholes who live here to just stay away from us and leave us alone.”

“Stay-at-home-moms,” Maggie said with mock sternness, miming Samantha’s ditzy blonde tone. “We don’t call them housewives anymore, remember?”

“Of course,” Scott said. “Forgive me. Anyway, if our little shock and awe session out there convinces them to just mind their own business and stay out of ours, it’s well worth it as far as I’m concerned.”

“Amen to that,” Maggie said. “Now let’s get this fuckin’ chair inside. Then we can start working on the refrigerator.”

*****

 

“They’re criminals!” Judith hissed to Samantha. “Did you hear what he said? He as much as admitted he killed his wife!”

“He didn’t say he killed anyone,” Samantha told her. “He just said she died.”

“Quite suddenly and unexpectedly,” Judith quoted. “He’s how old? Maybe twenty-eight? Thirty at the most? How old would his wife have been? Probably about the same age! Since when do thirty year old women suddenly drop dead?”

“If he killed his wife, why would he tell us about it?” she asked.

“As a warning!” she said. “He was threatening us, Sam! Don’t you see that? He was telling us to stay away from him or the same thing might happen to us!”

Though Samantha had been somewhat disquieted by the new neighbor’s words, she wasn’t quite convinced he was a murderer. “I didn’t quite get that from what he said.”

“I bet they’re drug dealers,” Judith said, ignoring her. “Some of those methamphetamine brewers you hear about on the news. I bet they’re on the run from the law! Why… those kids were probably kidnapped!”

“Kidnapped?”

“Didn’t you see the way they were looking at them? Like they were scared of them?”

“I didn’t see that at all,” Samantha told her. “They seemed like normal kids.”

“Hmmph,” Judith grunted. “What if they’re terrorists? Didn’t the woman look a little dark skinned? Come on, follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Samantha asked.

“To my house,” she answered. “I’m going to get a closer look at these people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just follow me,” she said, turning from the mailbox and heading up her driveway. After a moment, Samantha followed.

They went inside Judith’s house and closed the door. The front entry led into the formal living room of the house. Judith had this room immaculate, covered in hardwood flooring and stocked with beautifully restored antique furniture that no one was allowed to sit in or even touch. She led Samantha over to the large picture window. The blinds were adjusted in such a way that Judith could see out but – with the lighting and the angle – no one would be able to see in. She opened the drawer on an eighteenth century sewing table and removed a pair of high-powered binoculars. She put them to her eyes and peered out, looking back and forth until she tracked onto the two terrorist drug-dealing murderers that had invaded her beloved neighborhood. They were wrestling the easy chair down the truck’s ramp, each holding a side of it.

“Binoculars?” Samantha asked incredulously. “You have binoculars?”

“It’s for neighborhood watch,” Judith said, not taking them from her eyes. “I’m the block captain, you know.”

“Of course,” Samantha said, shaking her head.

Judith watched as they slowly made their way across the lawn and onto the porch. They wrestled the chair up the two steps and then paused at the doorway. They had a brief discussion and then switched positions, searching for the best angle with which to get the thing through. After a few fits and starts, they finally found it and disappeared inside.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Samantha asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m going to watch them unload. See if they’re bringing in any drug lab components or anything suspicious like that.”

“Do you really think they would unload something like that in plain sight?”

“Samantha dear,” Judith said condescendingly. “People who engage in such activities are not known for their intelligence. They don’t know anyone is watching them.”

“Ahh,” Samantha said. “I see.”

The two children came out of the house. They hopped and skipped across the lawn, pausing near the tree in the middle of it to look at something, and then ran up the ramp into the back of the rental truck. From her angle, Judith could see most of the inside. They rummaged around for a minute, trying to lift various boxes until each found one they could handle without assistance. Finally, loaded down, they went back down the ramp and across the lawn. No sooner had they disappeared from sight than the two adults reappeared. The man walked over to the pickup truck and pulled a wheeled dolly from the back of it. He wheeled it across the sidewalk and up the ramp. The woman followed him up and they stood there for a second, pondering the refrigerator which was the next large thing. Finally, the man took the dolly and pushed it forward, so it was underneath the appliance. He began to go about fastening the straps that would secure it to the dolly.

“What do you think is in that thing?” Judith whispered, though loud enough for Samantha to hear.

“In the refrigerator?” asked Samantha, who had a somewhat smaller view of the proceedings. “My guess would be nothing. They’re kind of hard to move when they’re full.”

“Don’t be naïve,” Judith said. “They’re up to something.”

Samantha rolled her eyes, wondering if Judith had finally gone over the edge. It had been whispered for some time that she was heading for it.

When the strap was secure the woman took the handles of the dolly and steadied herself. The man then went around the side of it. He reached up to the top to help tilt it off the floor of the truck so it could be wheeled. As he stretched his arms to do this, it caused his T-shirt to pull up over his waist. Through her high-powered binoculars Judith was plainly able to see a leather holster clipped to his belt on the right side of his shorts. Protruding from the holster was the black butt of a handgun.

“Oh my God,” Judith barked. “Oh my God!”

“What?” asked Samantha. “What did you see?”

“He’s got a gun!” she said. “A gun!”

“A gun? Where? I don’t see a gun.”

“It’s under his shirt!” she said. “I saw it! Just as plain as day!”

“Are you sure?” Samantha asked, wondering if she was having visual delusions now as well as mental ones.

“Of course I’m sure,” she said, frantically peering at that part of his body trying to catch another glimpse but now that the refrigerator was in the proper position his shirt had come back down, covering it. “He’s running around with a gun! I told you they’re criminals! Who else carries a gun around?”

“Where is it at?” Samantha asked. “Let me see.”

Judith handed her the binoculars. “It’s under his shirt on the right side of his waist,” she told her. “I saw it when he reached up to tilt the refrigerator. Oh my God! What do you think he’s going to do with it?”

Samantha didn’t answer her. Instead, she put the binoculars to her face and looked at the man and the woman wrestling with the refrigerator. She focused on the right side of the man’s waist, where his shirt was hanging down. And now that Judith had mentioned it, she did seem to see a slight bulge there, as if something were underneath. “Are you sure it wasn’t a cell phone?” she asked.

“It was a gun!” Judith insisted. “I know the difference between a cell phone and a gun!”

Samantha continued to watch as they gently eased the refrigerator down the ramp to the street. The man stood on the downhill portion, keeping the appliance steady while the woman held onto the dolly. Inch by inch they descended until they were safely down. They eased it back to a level position and took a breather. After a few moments the woman began to pull on the dolly again. The man then reached up to apply pressure and tilt it. As he did so, his shirt came up again, only for a few seconds. During that brief period of time Samantha could not help but see the holstered handgun that was revealed.

“He does have a gun,” she said slowly, lowering the binoculars.

“I told you,” Judith said, chewing on her lip now. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Samantha nodded, her mind trying to think this through. “There must be a reasonable explanation,” she said.

“For carrying a gun in our neighborhood?” Judith asked, almost hysterical now. “What kind of explanation could there be? You heard him talking about his dead wife. Do you still think he’s just an innocent new neighbor?”

“Well…” Samantha said slowly. She really couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation. Unless maybe he was…

“I’m calling the cops,” Judith said, spinning around and heading for the phone.

“Do you really think you should do that?”

“Of course I do! For God’s sake, Samantha. Do you think we should just ignore this?”

“Well… no, but…”

“There’s no buts about it,” she said, reaching the phone. She snatched it out of its cradle. “The cops will deal with them. I only hope there’s no shooting.”

With a finger trembling in fear and excitement, she punched up 9-1-1.

 

*****

 

Heritage County was located in California’s Great Central Valley, about ninety miles north of Sacramento. With just under 1200 square miles of real estate and just over one million residents, Heritage County was medium sized by California standards, an almost fifty-fifty mixture of dense urban area in the north and rich, rural agricultural land in the south. There were two incorporated cities within the county borders, meaning two areas that had their own police and fire departments, their own mayors, their own city councils.

The larger of the two was Heritage, the county seat. Named for the river that ran from the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the east and joined with the Sacramento River downtown, Heritage had a population of four hundred thousand, give or take a few. It was the sight of the original settlement in the area – starting as a staging point for miners during the gold rush, graduating to a railroad junction after the Intercontinental Railroad came to life and then the center of a vast agricultural empire built on rice, wheat, and tomatoes. These days, Heritage was a very diverse place. Downtown was filled with high-rise office buildings where thousands worked each weekday. Along the Heritage and the Sacramento River, million dollar homes stood, housing some of the richest people in the Sacramento Valley. To the east of downtown stood established neighborhoods full of 150 year old Victorian houses, some meticulously restored, some converted into four-plex apartments or medical offices, some rotting and condemned. To the north and south of downtown the neighborhoods grew increasingly seedy, with sections of ghetto as bad as anything found in Harlem or South Central Los Angeles. Heritage had it all. Every major racial group was represented within its borders. There were blacks, whites, Hispanics, Russians, Vietnamese, Hmongs, East Indians, and Middle Eastern people of various ancestries.

The second incorporated city was Gardenville, on the far northern border of the county, separated from Heritage by almost thirty miles of unincorporated suburban communities, which was where more than half of the county’s residents lived. Gardenville had a population of 45,000 and, in sharp contrast to Heritage, was one of the most non-diverse medium-sized cities in California. Statistics from the 2020 census revealed that 88% of Gardenville’s residents were Caucasian, as were a staggering 99.3% of the homeowners. The median house price in Gardenville was $460,000 compared to $275,000 in Heritage. Most of these homes were less than twenty years old and were contained in large, expensive subdivisions, many with walls around them and gates to control access. The shopping centers and strip malls were full of upscale shops that had to conform to strict codes of architecture. Gardenville was the Beverly Hills of the Heritage metropolitan area, the place where one strived to move to, the place whose very name conveyed success and stature.

When Judith Linden dialed 9-1-1 from her home telephone the call was routed directly to the Gardenville Police Department building where the city’s police and fire dispatch center was located. Linda Jorgenson, a thirty-year-old call taker who had been working for the City of Gardenville for four years, answered the call on the second ring.

“Gardenville 911,” she said professionally into her headset, her fingers poised over the

keyboard of her computer terminal, ready to type in whatever problem ailed her latest “customer” as the management of the dispatch center liked to call them. Her eyes had already noted the address of the call – 2903 Morning Cove Way in the southern district. “What is your emergency?”

“There’s a man walking around our neighborhood with a gun!” a woman told her excitedly.

Linda’s eyebrows went up a tad at these words. People walking around with guns were somewhat rare in Gardenville. Most of the police calls she received were for things like suspicious people, loud music complaints, or car burglary reports. “A man with a gun?” she asked. “Did you actually see the gun?”

“Yes!” the woman hissed. “He’s practically brandishing it at people! He’s right across the street from me. And there are children there! I think he might be holding them hostage!”

Linda’s eyebrows were now all the way up. “Holding them hostage?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

“There are two young children there with the man and this woman. They don’t seem like they’re with them voluntarily, if you know what I mean.”

“Is he holding the gun on them?”

“Not right now, but he’s carrying the gun around right in the front yard of the house. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Is the gun in his hands?” she asked.

“He’s carrying it on his waist,” she said. “But he keeps patting it and acting like he’s going to take it out.”

“So, he’s threatening them with it?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “He’s threatening them with it.”

“I show you at 2903 Morning Cove way,” she asked. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And where is the man with the gun?”

“Across the street, at 2906.”

This was enough information for Linda to start getting things moving. Her fingers began to move on her keyboard, blurring over the keys. She typed, 417 IN PROGRESS, POSS 207, which, in English, meant a man brandishing a firearm and a possible kidnapping. She then added a brief text explanation. RP STATES MAN AT 2906 MORNING COVE IS ARMED WITH HANDGUN IN FRONT YARD. 2 CHILDREN PRESENT POSSIBLY BEING HELD AGAINST WILL. She clicked her mouse and sent the information across the room to the southern district police dispatcher’s terminal.

Roberta Jones held that position. She looked at the call as it popped up on her screen and felt a small jolt of adrenaline. A man brandishing a gun? Children that had been kidnapped?

In Gardenville? What in the hell was the world coming to? Such things didn’t happen here! Still, she was professional and well-trained. She immediately assigned the call to unit 21B, designating that particular officer as the primary, meaning he would be the one to make the decisions, take the report, and would have overall control of the situation.

A cover unit – 24B – was also assigned as a matter of routine. Police units were never sent to any call alone. And since it was a crime in progress – and a fairly unusual and significant one at that – she instructed her computer to send the call to every unit currently on duty with instructions to head that way. In a town like Gardenville, which enjoyed the highest officer per capita ratio in the region and in which the majority of the considerable units on duty were not doing anything at any given time, that meant no less than twelve red and white police cars began heading towards Morning Cove Way as fast as they could.

Meanwhile, Linda continued to talk to her “RP”, or “reporting person”, and was gathering more information – primarily a description of the man in question, of the woman with him, and of the two children involved. She found that they were all moving things into a vacant house from a moving truck. She managed to get the license number of the moving truck but not the man and woman’s vehicle, which was apparently blocked from view by the truck. She did not consider the fact that her RP might be embellishing, exaggerating, or out-and-out making things up. It was not her job to do such things. She simply typed in the information as she gathered it, updating the units that were responding.

417 SUBJECT IS WMA, 28-30 Y/O, 180-190 LBS, SHORT BROWN HAIR, BLU JEAN SHORTS, WHITE TSHIRT W/ CORONA BOTTLE ON IT, ARMED WITH SEMI-AUTO HANDGUN IN RIGHT WAIST HOLSTER, read one update. RP STATES 417 SUBJECT IS POSSIBLY WANTED FOR 187, read another, which told the units he was possibly involved in a murder.

 

*****

 

Judith outdid herself in the information relay department. Within two minutes of the police dispatcher telling her she had patrol cars on the way and hanging up, she managed to call four of the neighbor women to inform them that a drama was about to unfold on their street.

“Those people moving into John and Kathy’s house are terrorists!” she told them. “Murderers! He’s carrying a gun on him right now and is holding those two kids hostage! The cops are on the way to arrest him. They’ll be here any second! Be sure to stay in the house until it’s over. There might be shooting!”

And of course, each person she called immediately called at least one other person and then quickly disregarded her advice and rushed outside, pretending to find things to do in the front yard. They messed with garbage cans, with rose bushes, they watered flowers. And every one of them had their eye on the mysterious figures moving furniture into the empty house.

 

*****

 

Officer Stanley Goble was nearly slobbering with excitement. He had been with the Gardenville Police Department for nearly six years now and this call was promising to be the most significant of his career. A man with a gun! A possible kidnapping! A possible murder suspect! After the thousands of hours he had spent rousting bums that had jumped off a freight train near downtown, taking burglary reports, handling petty disputes between shoppers and clerks, and, of course, pulling over suspicious vehicles seen cruising the exclusive streets (which meant any vehicle with a Hispanic in it that wasn’t toting landscaping equipment or any vehicle at all with an African-American in it), finally a real crime was being committed in his city. And he was the primary officer! He blessed whatever gods there might be as he wheeled his patrol car onto the quiet residential street. Three other units were directly behind him. About two hundred yards down, he saw the moving truck, just as described. He saw the figures of two people – a man and a woman – on the front lawn. His sharp eyes could make out the clothing the male was wearing. It was blue jean shorts and a white T-shirt, just like the description had said. That was their guy. Behind the two suspects were the children. They were standing on the porch. He would have to be careful to keep the children out of arm’s reach of the suspects and out of the line of any possible gunfire. He took a deep breath and picked up his radio microphone.

“Two-one Baker is on scene,” he said, his voice trembling the slightest bit. “Suspects are on the front lawn. We’re gonna take ‘em down.”

“Two-one Baker, copy,” the dispatcher said. “Units, keep the air clear.”

A beeping sound began to emit from the radio, telling everyone on the frequency not to talk on it until the current crisis was over. Stanley wheeled in sharply, pulling to a stop just in front of the rental van, directly behind the pick-up truck. He started to get up and felt the sharp jerk of his seatbelt holding him down. Damn! He’d forgotten to release it. With a trembling hand he popped the release button and nearly jumped out of the car, using his door for cover. He jerked his gun from his holster and leveled it at the two suspects, both of whom were looking at him in alarm and confusion. To the sides and behind him, the other patrol units jerked to a halt as well. The officers occupying them took up similar positions. Two of them had their shotguns out, one had the AR-15 that most patrol units carried. All weapons were pointed at the man and the woman.

Things were moving very fast for Stanley now. He was scared of screwing up, scared of being hurt, scared of having someone innocent hurt. His mind just had time to note that both the man and the woman looked very familiar to him, that he seemed to have encountered them before, not just once but numerous times. He even had a place associated with this feeling of recognition. The Heritage County Jail downtown. The Gardenville PD booked all of their felony prisoners into the jail after they were arrested. He had seen these two there before, he was sure of it. They were cons! That was the only explanation! Maybe they were trustees in the booking area, which was the only part of the jail he typically saw. Or maybe he had seen them in the holding area while waiting for the sheriff’s deputies to call his prisoner in.

His eyes locked onto the bulge on the right side of the man’s waist. There was a gun there all right, hidden beneath the shirt. His finger tightened on the trigger guard of his weapon. If the man made anything even remotely like a move towards that bulge, Stanley was going to shoot him.

“What the fuck is going on?” the man and woman both said simultaneously, their eyes wide. It would have been funny under different circumstances.

“Put your hands in the air!” Stanley yelled, projecting as much authority as he could muster. “Get them up, now!”

“What?” the man said angrily. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“Now!” Stanley yelled. “Both of you! Get your hands up or you’re dead!”

“Daddy, what’s going on?” yelled the terrified little girl from the porch.

“Mom!” yelled the equally terrified little boy. Both of them started to move towards the man and the woman.

“You kids stay where you are!” Stanley yelled at them.

“Katie, Chris, get back!” yelled the man, looking over his shoulder. “Just sit down over there!” Thankfully, the kids obeyed.

“Put your hands up!” Stanley nearly screamed. “Now!”

They did as they were told, putting their hands high in the air.

Stanley breathed a small sigh of relief. Once there hands were up, things usually went smoothly. At least that’s what he figured. He had never really been in a situation like this before. “The male has a gun in his right waistband,” he said to the other cops covering him.

“We got it,” one of them – the one with the Ar-15 – replied. He was even more keyed up than Stanley.

Stanley was about to issue his next order to the suspects, the order to drop to their knees. But before he could do so, the man said something that changed the entire situation.

“We’re cops, you fucking morons!” he yelled. “We’re off-duty cops! What the fuck are you doing?”

Everyone suddenly went silent. No sooner had the words come out of the man’s mouth than it suddenly came clear just why this man and this woman seemed so familiar to him and why that familiarity was connected to the Heritage County Jail. They were deputies with the Heritage County Sheriff’s Department – the largest law enforcement agency in the metropolitan area. About seven months before, both of them had worked in the jail’s booking area on the day shift – the last stop for rookie deputies before they were sent out to the patrol division. Stanley had turned prisoners over to both of them dozens of times. He had even tried flirting with the female a few times before being resoundingly and firmly shot down by her.

“Oh, fuck me,” Stanley said, lowering his pistol, wondering if he was going to get into

trouble for this. “What a fuckin’ clusterfuck!”

 

*****

 

“What are they doing?” Samantha asked as she saw the uniformed cops suddenly lower their weapons and come out from behind their car doors. “Aren’t they going to arrest them?”

“They have to,” Judith said. “They’re kidnappers.”

They were standing on Judith’s front yard, having come out to view the proceedings as soon as the patrol cars had come screaming into the neighborhood. On all the other lawns up and down the block, other women and even a few men were watching the same scene in varying degrees of confusion.

“They’re putting their guns away,” Samantha said. “What’s going on?”

And sure enough, Samantha was right. The police officers were putting their shotguns and the military rifle back in their cars. The officer with the pistol had put it back in his holster. The two kidnapping terrorists had lowered their hands and were looking around with angry expressions on their faces. The two children ran to each parent and hugged them tightly and the police did absolutely nothing about it. They weren’t dragging them away. They weren’t handcuffing them. They hadn’t even disarmed him. Something was definitely not right about this.

Three of the cops got back in their cars and pulled away, beating a hasty retreat. The fourth, the one who had seemed to be in charge, remained behind. He walked up to the man and the woman and began talking to them. The conversation seemed very heated for a few moments, with much shaking of the heads and raised voices. Finally, it seemed to mellow some. Judith saw the man and the woman suddenly look in her direction, glaring at her. She quickly averted her eyes.

“What do you suppose this is all about?” Samantha asked uncomfortably.

“They must have some sort of protection,” Judith said fearfully. “You know? Like those mafia people on The Godfather?”

“You think they’re part of the mob?”

“Obviously they’re connected to someone, aren’t they? What other explanation could there be?”

The conversation went on for a few more minutes. There were a few more head shakes, a few more glares in her direction, and then, to Judith’s amazement, the cop actually shook each of their hands.

“Disgraceful,” she said. “To think that even our police department is corrupted. I’m certainly going to be sending an email to the mayor about this.”

Samantha said nothing. Already she had gleamed a terrible mistake had been made and was trying to think of a way to extricate herself from being associated with it.

The cop got back in his car and the man and the woman went into their house, disappearing. The police car pulled away from the curb, turned around in the street, and then drove directly to Judith’s house, coming to a stop before it. The door opened and he got out, walking over to them, his face red with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“Good afternoon,” he said with forced politeness. “Are one of you ladies Mrs. Linden?”

“Uh… well, I am,” Judith said nervously. “Is there a problem?”

The cop took a deep breath, as if trying to gather his thoughts. “You called in the man with the gun, Ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, finding herself on firmer ground now. “Why didn’t you arrest him? Are you just going to let him run around with a weapon in this neighborhood?”

“Well, Ma’am,” he said, “he’s allowed to run around with a weapon in this neighborhood, or in any other neighborhood in California for that matter. You see, he’s an off-duty sheriff’s deputy.”

Judith paled. “He’s a… a cop?”

“He is,” the cop confirmed. “As is his roommate. They work patrol down in Northwood.”

“Oh my God,” Samantha moaned, putting her head down. “I should’ve known better.”

“But… but… he killed his wife!” Judith said. “He told me that!”

“He told you he killed his wife?” the cop asked tiredly. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” she barked. “Has anyone looked into that?”

“Judith,” Samantha said. “He didn’t exactly say that. He said his wife had died unexpectedly. You kind of… uh… drew that conclusion yourself.”

Judith looked at her angrily, the woman who she thought would be her ally in this thing. “I do not draw conclusions,” she spat.

“His wife died of a burst brain aneurysm four years ago,” the cop said. “She lived in Marin County at the time, about 120 miles away from here. They had been divorced for more than a year when it happened. She was not murdered. Her death was ruled quite natural.”

“Are you sure?” Judith said pointedly. “Did you actually look into that? Or is that just what he told you?”

The cop opened his mouth, looking like he was about to say something caustic and angry. At the last second he seemed to check himself. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes for a second. When he re-opened them, he seemed calmer, more in control. “I have no reason to suspect him of homicide,” he said at last. “We’re just going to write this whole thing off as a misunderstanding. If there’s nothing else I can help you with, I’ll be going back to work now. Have a nice day.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply turned and walked back to his patrol car. A second later he drove off, disappearing around the corner.

 

*****

From their front lawn Maggie and Scott watched him go. Both of them were still quite angry, still quite adrenalized from the experience of finding themselves on the receiving end of a felony takedown.

“Fuckin’ yokels,” Scott said, shaking his head. “Can you believe that shit?”

“They were just responding to the information they had,” Maggie said soothingly. “You can’t really blame them for that.”

“Sure I can,” he said. “That motherfucker dropped off prisoners to us for months when we worked booking. He was the one that tried to get into your pants, remember?”

“I remember,” she said, rolling her eyes. As if she would sleep with a geek like that.

“And yet, when he pulls up on our front lawn he doesn’t recognize us. He points a fucking gun at us and yells at our kids. If you had pulled up on his front lawn would you have known he was a cop?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I would have.”

“There you have it,” he said. “He’s a fuckin’ yokel. This whole goddamned department is full of fucking yokels. The only reason they work here is because they couldn’t get on at a real department.”

“True,” she had to admit. Among the four major law enforcement agencies operating in Heritage County – Heritage PD, Heritage Sheriff’s Department, the California Highway Patrol, and Gardenville PD – Gardenville PD was the least respected. It was the lowest paid and had the lowest standards. Anyone good who ended up there inevitably used it only as a springboard to a higher paying and more respectable position somewhere else.

“Did you see him talking to that bitch who called us in?” Scott asked her. “That fuckin’ bitch who said I’d killed my wife, that we’d kidnapped our kids, that we were running around brandishing guns? Did you see that shit? He was over there kissing her ass! He wasn’t yelling at her, calling her a moron, or threatening her with filing a false report like he should have. He was kissing her fucking ass! That’s what those yokels are taught to do with the rich pricks who live here.”

“I know,” she said, reaching up and massaging his sweaty shoulder. “That’s exactly what he was doing.”

Scott sighed. “Do you think maybe this was a mistake?” he asked. “Moving here? Do you really think we’re going to be able to live among these people?”

“We’ll get by,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get by.”

And as it turned out, she was more right than she could have known.

Chapter 2

 

SAMANTHA

 

In the Sacramento Valley, it was not called Indian summer when days of stifling 100-degree weather lasted well into late September. It was just a matter of routine. In most years autumn-like weather didn’t start until well after Halloween, sometimes not until Thanksgiving. It was all just a part of living in the interior of the Golden State.

Scott wiped a slight sheen of sweat from his brow as he drove through the Gardenville streets at 2:20 PM on a Wednesday afternoon. The outside temperature was 98 degrees and the air conditioner of his tired Toyota Tacoma struggled to make the inside of the vehicle habitable. He thought fleetingly how nice it would be to get the system recharged with fresh coolant but knew it was a pipe dream. He had his portion of the $4400 house payment due in a few days, not to mention his half of the utility bills. The air conditioning would just have to wait until next year. Hopefully the truck would last that long.

Traffic was heavy on Valley Oak Drive – one of the main arteries through this portion of the suburb. Valley Oak High School had just let out five minutes before and the students were all pushing out onto the street and clogging it up. Most of them drove late model cars. Jetta’s and other Volkswagen products were the most popular among the girls while the boys favored restored older cars. Scott had to slam on his brakes as a boy in a cherry-red 1965 Mustang pulled out in front of him, his tires squealing, the rear end fishtailing just a bit.

He shook his head in frustration. Business as usual in front of the high school. The Gardenville PD made a point to keep their units well clear of the area during dismissal. God forbid they should actually write a ticket to the son or daughter of one of their rich prick citizens and incur the wrath of some hired mouthpiece in court or possibly an angry editorial in the Gardenville Register. Customer service was the name of the game at Gardenville PD and the citizens were the customers.

After clearing the high school zone, Scott turned off on a two-lane residential street and fought his way through another brief spate of congested traffic. The vehicles making up this particular jam were mostly mini-vans, luxury sedans, and absurdly large SUVs that had never put so much as a tire off of paved surface. These were the mothers of the neighborhood who – like him – had come to pick up their children from Thomas J. Brookfield Elementary School.

The school, which was named after the real estate developer who had funded its construction as part of the southern Gardenville master plan, was of conservative architecture and ultra-modern construction. The buildings were box shaped with fake brick walls. The grounds were immaculately landscaped. The playground equipment was made of plastic and designed not to allow any litigation causing injuries. The pick-up lane was choked with cars, the line stretching well out into the street and around the corner onto a side street. Some of the mothers, Scott knew, showed up more than thirty minutes early to get at the front of this line.

Scott knew better than to do this though. After two weeks of picking the kids up three times a week, he had a system down. He bypassed the end of the line and parked across the street instead. He got out of his car and walked up, weaving through the parking lot until he came to the front of the school, where the children would be funneling out in less than five minutes.

There was a large pagoda here and about two dozen mothers were already in attendance, gathered in their little clique groups, chattering to one another. Some pushed baby carriages, some chatted on cellular phones, some sipped iced coffee drinks from the nearby Starbucks, others had well-trained dogs on leashes despite the sign on the wall forbidding animals on school grounds.

Judith Linden was one of the mothers. Like always, she had a group of about six other women around her and was talking softly and seriously to them in the manner of a professional gossip. Her entourage was huddled close, nodding seriously from time to time, occasionally asking a question for clarity. Scott wondered if they were talking about him. He knew that he and Maggie and their two “illegitimate kids” were a favorite subject of hers. He walked by them on his way to the out-of-the-way corner of the pagoda he favored and as soon as he was in earshot, they clammed up.

“Yep,” he whispered to himself sourly. “They’re talking about us.”

God only knew what distorted tales she was spreading this time. Since that first day nearly a month ago when Judith’s call to 9-1-1 had resulted in an armed confrontation on his front lawn, she had been going out of her way to make herself as much of an annoyance as possible. The first thing had been a certified letter sent to the house. The letter had been printed on stationary of the Southern Gardenville Homeowner’s Association and had informed him that – as a new homeowner in the neighborhood – he was scheduled to attend an interview by the Board of Directors on the following Monday. It had not asked, it had told. He had immediately called the number listed on the bottom and his call had been forwarded to Judith herself.

“Just calling to tell you we won’t be at your interview,” he said politely. “But thanks for inviting us.”

“Is there a problem with the date?” she asked. “If so, we can reschedule.”

“No, there’s no problem with the date. We just won’t be there.”

This flustered her. “Mr. Dover,” she said firmly. “The interview with the Board is customary for all new homeowners. It’s a chance to get to know you and to explain the rules set down in the convents, conditions, and restrictions about what you may and may not do on and with your property.”

“You know all you need to know about me already,” he said. “And as for the CC&R, we have a copy of it. It was one of those ten thousand pieces of paper we signed to buy the house. So, again, I thank you for the invitation and respectfully decline.”

“You can’t decline,” she insisted. “The interview is mandatory before admission to the association.”

“Then don’t admit us,” he said flippantly.

“You have to be a member in order to live in the neighborhood,” she said.

“Well, then I guess we have ourselves a dilemma, don’t we? But since we’ve already closed on the house and since we’ve already paid our first dues for your little association, it would seem we already are members, aren’t we?”

“But this is to make it official,” she insisted.

“I really don’t care whether it’s official or not,” he said. “I’m just calling to tell you we won’t be there, so don’t wait up for us, okay?”

“Mr. Dover,” she said firmly. “You don’t seem to understand. If you don’t attend the interview…”

“Goodbye, Ms. Linden,” he interrupted. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

With that, he’d hung up. Since then, two more notices to appear had come via certified mail. He had ignored both. The ball was now in Judith’s court and he was waiting for it to come volleying back to him.

Scott adjusted his mirrored sunglasses as he leaned against the chain-link fence near the edge of the school grounds, his eyes casually scanning the pagoda where Judith held court. He didn’t acknowledge her or her little cabal, but he knew they were watching. They always were.

He sipped from his lukewarm iced coffee, just passing time. And then—like clockwork— she appeared.

Samantha Belkin, in her high-end yoga pants and white tank top, blonde hair pulled back like she was about to go on a magazine shoot. She didn’t come over every time, but often enough that he’d started to expect it. Or hope for it. He wasn’t sure which yet.

She walked with that practiced suburban elegance—shoulders back, smile already engaged before she reached him.

“Hi, Scott,” she said, just a little breathy, just a little conspiratorial. “Hot again today.”

He gave her a nod. “It’s the Valley. Always is.”

Samantha chuckled, brushing an imaginary strand of hair from her face. “I swear, I spend half my life in a car with the AC running and the other half pretending I enjoy walking outside.”

Scott smiled faintly but said nothing.

She let the silence sit for a beat, eyes flicking sideways toward the pagoda. Judith and her harpies were definitely watching—probably trying to lip-read. Samantha turned her body slightly, enough to block the view of her expression.

“You picking up today?” she asked.

“Yup. Maggie’s working.”

She nodded. “You two have a good system worked out. It’s… modern.”

That word. Modern. Neutral on the surface. Loaded underneath.

The system worked because it had to. Maggie worked nights Monday through Thursday; Scott worked nights Thursday through Sunday. That gave them a thin 24-hour overlap on Thursdays—both worked that night—so Scott’s mother came over to help. She still drove the same VW microbus from her hippie days, usually pulled into the driveway by 6:00 PM and stayed until it was time to take the kids to school, which she did in her microbus with the peace stickers and the make love not war sticker.

Maggie handled mornings on Mondays. Scott did Tuesday through Thursday mornings. Weekends were a coin toss. Their shifts were brutal, the sleep inconsistent, and the stress level high—but it beat single parenting on their own in a one-bedroom apartment on the edge of a beat-down patrol zone.

“Modern” was one way to describe it. Survivalist might’ve been more accurate.

Scott gave Samantha a noncommittal shrug. “It works for us.”

Another silence. Then Samantha glanced back toward the group again. “God, they’re worse than TSA agents. If I sneeze they’ll want to see my boarding pass.”

Scott chuckled at that. “They watching you or me?”

“Oh, me. Definitely.” Her eyes flicked back to him, and she dropped her voice a notch. “They’re always watching the woman who’s not supposed to be talking to the hot neighbor.”

That word again—hot. Was it a throwaway compliment? Banter? Or a signal?

Scott felt his pulse tick up a notch, but he pushed it down. She was early thirties, just like Scott and Maggie, married, polished. Smoking hot. Not the type that usually went for someone like him—not the cop groupies in low-cut tank tops and flip-flops he’d been banging since getting his badge. Samantha was… higher tier. Out of his league, to put it mildly. And married on top of that.

Still. That last line stuck in his head like a burr.

“You ever get tired of it?” he asked, casually.

“The moms?” she replied, then tilted her head. “Or the part where my husband’s never home and I end up standing here flirting with you in broad daylight?”

Flirting.

She’d said it. Named it.

Scott didn’t answer right away. Samantha’s gaze was soft but sharp, like she was testing the waters without ever dipping her foot in. She knew the other women were watching, but she didn’t care. Or maybe she cared a lot, and that was the entire point.

Samantha shifted her weight, letting her arm brush just slightly against his as she leaned in to watch the kids start filing out.

Then she smiled—polite, demure, with just a hint of something else underneath—and walked off toward the pickup lane, hips swaying like a metronome tuned to private tension.

Scott stood there for a moment longer, watching her go, and muttered to himself: “Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that about?”

Chris and Katie were in second and fourth grade, respectively. So far, they were fitting into their new school—for the most part, anyway. Both were keenly aware that they were out of their element, though they couldn’t quite explain why.

They’d only ever gone to inner-city schools—places filled with kids of the unemployed, the working poor, and single moms just trying to keep it together. This place wasn’t like that.

This place was clean, oversized, and expensive. No corners cut in construction. No signs of budget limitations or bureaucratic neglect. Was that fair or unfair? Scott didn’t know. He was just happy that his daughter and Maggie’s son were on the good side of the equation.

And the students? Privileged—every single one of them.

They were all white. They wore name-brand clothes. They carried Herschel Supply Co. backpacks that cost $120 at Buy Buy Baby and other stores that didn’t even exist in their old neighborhoods.

Katie's backpack had come from Target. Chris’s was a hand-me-down from Maggie’s

previous life in retail. Neither of them seemed to care much, but Scott noticed. The divide. The quiet rules of status that kids understood even if they couldn’t articulate them.

He spotted them coming out together, Chris walking slightly ahead, Katie behind, both looking flushed from the heat and ready to be anywhere else but school.

“Hey, hooligans,” Scott called, raising a hand.

Katie brightened immediately. “Daddy!”

She ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. Scott dropped a hand to her back and gave her a gentle squeeze.

“Learn anything today?” he asked.

Katie looked up at him, serious. “Did you know that squirrels can’t burp?”

Scott blinked. “That... wasn’t on my list of expected answers.”

“But it’s true,” she said, nodding as if defending a peer-reviewed study.

“I’ll sleep better tonight with that knowledge,” he told her.

Chris caught up, slinging his beat-up backpack onto one shoulder. “Can we get McDonalds?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” Scott said. “I have a meatloaf all put together and ready for baking for our nightly feast.”

“Meatloaf?” Scott asked. “Are you serious?”

“I am dead serious,” he said. He had known Chris a long time—since he was a toddler, pretty much—but this was their first time cohabitating together. Their roles in each other’s lives were still solidifying under this new reality.

“Daddy’s meatloaf is the bomb!” Katie declared. “Are we having macaroni and cheese with it?”

“Of course we are,” Scott said. “Do I look like a freakin’ barbarian?”

“Yay!” she said.

“What about Jamba Juice?” Chris asked. “Can we stop there?”

“No,” Scott said simply. “Jamba juice is expensive and neither me nor your mother have money falling out of our butts. You two can have crackers and cheese with lemonade when we get home.” He waved toward the truck. “Now… load it up.”

They piled in. Scott drove in silence for a few blocks, letting them cool off in the AC and fight over music in the back seat. Chris won, barely, with some sanitized version of punk rock that made Scott question the future of America.

“Hey, Scott?” Chris asked eventually, voice quieter now. “You ever shoot anybody?”

The question caught him off guard. Not because he hadn’t heard it before—civilians asked it all the time. But Chris wasn’t just a kid. He was Maggie’s kid. And he was watching Scott like he was waiting for an answer that meant something more.

Scott kept his eyes on the road. “Nope.”

“Oh,” Chris said, trying to sound neutral. “But you’ve arrested people, right?”

“Sure,” Scott said. “Locked up plenty of bad guys.”

“Like... gang members? Or murderers?”

Scott sighed quietly. “I don’t really talk about work, Chris. Not with people who aren’t cops.”

“Why not?”

“Because people who aren’t cops don’t get it,” Scott said. “And I don’t want to bring that stuff home. It doesn’t belong there.”

Chris was quiet after that. But in the rearview, Scott saw him nod. Not upset—just processing. And if he was honest, Scott didn’t hate the look the kid gave him a few seconds later. It wasn’t awe. But it was close.

“Is Mom sleeping?” Chris asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s got the morning watch again, just like every Wednesday. My mom will be over tomorrow night when both of us work.”

“Nana’s the bomb,” Katie said. “She always brings Jolly Ranchers with her. I like the apple ones.”

“She sometimes gets us McDonalds too,” Chris mumbled.

Scott sighed. “I don’t think I was supposed to hear that.” At least she wasn’t handing out THC gummies yet—though she and pops were pretty fond of those themselves.

Scott smiled faintly. Home. Their version of it, anyway.

He made the turn onto Morning Cove Way. Their house stood out just enough to irritate Judith every time she looked at it. That thought alone made the mortgage easier to swallow.

They pulled into the driveway and parked in the garage. Scott killed the engine and turned around in his seat.

“Grab your backpacks. No brawling in the kitchen. And if you touch the thermostat, I will keelhaul both of you.”

“What’s keelhauling?” Chris asked.

“Tying you by the feet and dragging you under a ship so the barnacles shred your skin and fill the wounds with saltwater.”

“That’s cool,” Chris said.

“That’s child abuse,” Katie informed him.

“Who’s gonna arrest a cop for that?” Scott asked, giving them a faux-shrewd look.

And with that, the chaos of the school day faded into the quiet rhythm of after-school life—backpacks dumped and one very tired cop wondering just how little energy he could expend before the kids went to bed.

The kids scattered once they got inside, Katie heading straight to the kitchen for lemonade and crackers, Chris making a show of opening his Chromebook like he was about to solve nuclear fusion, then promptly disappearing with a mouse in hand.

Scott tossed his keys into the dish by the door, slipped off his shoes, and headed to his bedroom. He unclipped the holster from his belt—his off-duty weapon still secured inside. Like any cop, he carried everywhere. Going out without a gun on made him feel naked, exposed, vulnerable. But he was home now. Time to let down the defenses.

He stepped into the room, locked the holstered gun in the nightstand, and then turned right back around. Routine. Not worth thinking about. Just what you did when you had to carry a gun and you had kids in the house.

The Giants game was already on—bottom of the third, no score yet. He dropped into his usual spot on the couch with a quiet groan and grabbed the remote, adjusting the volume.

The Giants were playing with their fans’ emotions again this year—surging into incredible winning streaks that made them look like playoff contenders, followed immediately by losing streaks so ugly you’d think it was a different team entirely. But it wasn’t. It was just the Giants. As always. Painful, chaotic, and somehow still lovable.

At 4:15, he got up and put the meatloaf in the oven—his own recipe, heavy on the garlic and Worcestershire, the onions chopped so fine they were unnoticeable. Katie loved it. Chris had never tried it before—Maggie was a good cook but did not know how to make a simple meatloaf—but Scott was confident in his creation.

At 5:45, he boiled water and stirred in the butter and a the bright orange macaroni powder that passed for cheese. It was a perfect pairing: one part comfort food, one part chemical warfare. The kids would be thrilled. At 5:55, he nuked the bag of steamed mixed vegetables. He knew full well only he and Maggie would eat any of them. The kids would pretend to try, then push them around the plate like they were doing art class with green beans, eventually hiding most of it under their napkins before rinsing their plates and getting dessert.

Chris had finished his homework and was now glued to the PS5, deep into a session of Lego Star Wars or maybe Minecraft, tongue sticking out slightly as he mashed buttons with intense seven-year-old focus. Katie was curled on the recliner, watching a Roblox YouTuber scream unintelligible things at top volume.

And then Maggie emerged.

She shuffled down the hallway like a hungover rock star, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hung past her thighs, no bra, and bare legs. Her hair looked like it had lost a fight with a leaf blower. She scratched her neck and yawned like a lioness just waking from a nap.

Scott looked over from the kitchen and raised an eyebrow. “Well, look what the cat dragged out.”

Maggie blinked, looked down at herself, and shrugged. “I’m wearing clothes. What more do you want?”

Scott grinned. “You’re lucky the HOA doesn’t have interior dress code enforcement.”

“Give Judith time,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes as she made her way to the coffee pot.

“Dinner’s in ten,” Scott said. “Meatloaf, mac, and the obligatory bag of vegetables no one will eat.”

“Ah, the essentials,” Maggie said, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “Did I sleep through anything exciting?”

 

*****

 

Scott Dover had not always planned to become a cop.

He’d grown up in a two-bedroom bungalow in the rural part of south Heritage county, raised by loving but profoundly impractical hippie parents. They weren’t abusive or neglectful—in fact, they were the kind of people who always had a pot of herbal tea ready and kept a dream journal beside the bed. But they were still living in the 1970s, spiritually if not chronologically. His father—a geologist by trade—also made wind chimes from recycled bicycle parts and played mandolin in a band that never practiced. His mother—a bookkeeper for a chain of independently owned head shops (they called them ‘smoke shops’ these days)— also sold hand-dyed fabrics and once claimed a hummingbird had whispered investment advice to her during a meditation.

They were kind. Supportive. Occasionally infuriating. Very strange.

He loved them deeply. But by the time he was old enough to realize most people didn’t grow up attending full-moon drum circles or calling their dad by his first name, he also realized he wanted something different. Something structured. Predictable. Clean lines. Rules.

Structure, however, was not what he found when he got married.

He met Katie’s mother, Taryn, when he was twenty-two and working nights as a delivery driver while attending community college on a vague path toward an associate’s degree in biology. She was smart, attractive, and dangerous in the specific way that damaged people can be—charismatic, emotional, and always in crisis. For a while, that chaos made him feel like he was doing something important—like he was saving her from something. Or maybe saving himself.

They got married a year after they met. Katie was born ten months after that. And the entire relationship unraveled almost immediately.

Taryn was never violent. Never cruel. And when it came to Katie, she was actually a good mother—attentive, gentle, completely wrapped around her daughter’s tiny finger. She handled the diapers and doctor’s visits, she never forgot a school event, and she could calm Katie’s cries with nothing more than a song and a sway.

But as a partner? She was a disaster.

Unreliable, impulsive, emotionally erratic.

She picked fights over nothing, self-sabotaged when things were calm, and swung between romantic idealism and bitter resentment like a pendulum on fast-forward. She loved Scott in theory, but she didn’t know how to be in a relationship without burning it down from the inside. Every day was either a honeymoon or a cold war, and there was never a middle ground.

Scott tried to hold things together—for Katie’s sake, and maybe out of some misplaced hope that things would settle. But they didn’t.

They made it three years before he filed for divorce.

It wasn’t ugly. It wasn’t contested. It was just over.

He moved out, paid his child support on time, and kept his distance.

Katie stayed with her mother most of the time. Scott was the weekend father. He hated it but the court had spoken.

And so he settled into divorced life.

Taryn died two years later.

It was a sudden brain hemorrhage. She’d been sitting in a spa lobby, waiting for a mani-pedi appointment—almost certainly paid for with his child support money—and just slumped over without a word. By the time the ambulance got there, she was gone.

There was no custody fight. No drawn-out legal mess. Just a funeral he paid for and a little girl who suddenly needed him full-time.

Katie had been five then.

She didn’t cry when she moved into his apartment. She just asked if she could bring her stuffed dog and whether he knew how to make toast.

He did.

And after that, things got better. Slowly. Grudgingly. But better.

Now there was just the small matter of how to support and care for his daughter without the benefit of a wife or even an ex-wife.

Scott hadn’t been looking for a career in law enforcement. But sometimes life hands you something that looks like a door, and you walk through it mostly just to see where the hell it goes.

It started with a conversation at a gas station, of all places. A guy he barely knew from high school—a few years younger—a sophomore when Scott had been a senior. Not someone Scott had ever taken seriously. Scott didn’t even remember his name now, but he’d spotted him filling up and struck up a conversation. The guy was applying for the sheriff’s department.

“They’re hiring,” he’d said. “Starting pay’s solid, and the schedule’s good once you’re off probation. You get to carry a gun and tell people what to do.”

That was the sales pitch.

Scott didn’t think much of it at first. But it stuck with him.

He needed a good-paying job. Something with benefits, structure, and preferably the kind of odd-hour flexibility that would allow him to juggle parenting without ending up working the register at 7-Eleven for the next decade. A few days later, he looked into it.

He applied.

As far as he knew, that guy from the gas station never got hired—probably washed out during the background check or just got filtered out in the psychological phase for being too young, too eager, or too loud. But Scott? Scott made it through.

The written test came first. It was less of a challenge and more of a filter—obviously designed to weed out the illiterates and the mouth-breathers, not to evaluate anything meaningful. He passed easily.

Then came the physical agility test: the infamous obstacle course, followed by a hundred-yard sprint to the finish line—all in under three minutes and thirty seconds. Scott passed that too. Barely. But it still counted. They didn’t care if you crossed the line gasping like a fish and had to sit for nearly twenty minute to recover before you could pick yourself up and drive home. As long as you crossed it before the timer hit, they could wheel you out in a coroner’s van and it would still be logged as a pass.

Next were the interviews.

The first was a panel of three deputies, all of whom looked like they’d seen things no human should see and didn’t particularly care to be there. He did well—kept his answers short, direct, and free of anything too clever. That seemed to go over well.

Then came the chief’s interview. More buttoned-up. More political. Still fine.

And finally, the interview with the Sheriff himself—a tradition the sitting sheriff insisted on. No one was hired without shaking his hand and looking him in the eye. It was part interview, part performance, part loyalty test. Scott passed that too.

He was hired.

The Heritage County Sheriff’s Department’s Basic Recruit Academy was located on the north bank of the Heritage River, in the unincorporated suburb of Belhaven, a few miles east of the Heritage city limits. It occupied what used to be a municipal water treatment facility—long decommissioned, questionably remediated, and never quite free of its past.

The buildings were refurbished, the classrooms updated, and the drill yard paved over, but the old holding ponds and rusting tanks still ringed the property, fenced off and overgrown with weeds. Depending on the direction of the wind or the thickness of the morning fog, the air carried a faint but undeniable scent of sewage.

No one talked about it, but everyone noticed it. You just learned to breathe shallow and keep moving.

The symbolism wasn’t lost on Scott, even if no one ever said it out loud—you entered the department through a place that still smelled like shit, because that was the job. You were here to wade into it. To shovel it. To survive it. If you couldn’t stomach the smell, you weren’t going to make it in the field.

The Heritage County Sheriff’s Academy ran twenty-two weeks, and every one of them was designed to strip you down, build you up, and then strip you down again—just to make sure you were paying attention.

It wasn’t as militaristic as Parris Island, but it wasn’t summer camp either. The days started early, the runs were long, and the instructors liked yelling just enough to remind you they could ruin your day if they felt like it.

Scott kept his head down, ran just fast enough to avoid embarrassment, and answered every question like there was a right one—even when there wasn’t.

That’s when he met Maggie Winslow.

She was cute, sure—dark hair, compact build, sharp jaw—but she didn’t flirt like some of the other women. She didn’t play dumb. And she sure as hell didn’t bat her lashes at instructors. She was cool to the guys in a way that wasn’t rude, just... uninterested. Businesslike. Like she had a checklist and “male attention” wasn’t on it.

Scott didn’t mind. He wasn’t looking to hook up with anyone anyway—not with a five-year-old at home and enough debt to kill a small horse. But Maggie was sharp. Sarcastic. She had the same put-your-head-down-and-survive approach he did. They ended up paired in PT drills a few times, then teamed up on a classroom scenario. After that, it just kind of clicked.