“You should go back to bed,” he says, voice gruff again. “It’ll be loud tomorrow once Jackson is up.” And without so much as a look back, he crosses the room and disappears up the stairs.
He’s brazen, a little rude, and it unnerves me. Wes Dawson is the last person I’d try to con, and not just because he’s a cop. He’s not looking for a hookup. He’s not desperate and needing to prove something to himself.
Though deep down, everyone wants something, and finding out what drives Wes is key to getting what I want. I’ll crack him eventually…as long as he doesn’t crack me first.6WestonI sit back at my desk and pull out my phone, logging onto the security company’s app and checking the cameras inside the house again. For the fifth time. This hour. It’s not that I don’t trust Scarlet, it’s just…I don’t trust Scarlet.
She’s well aware of all the security measures I have in place at our house, and I haven’t given her the codes just yet. The only place she’s going today is the backyard with Jackson, and there’s no need to arm the house just to be outside.
The cameras aren’t at all nanny-cams, and show the front, back, and side door, as well as one looking down the steps with a view of the foyer. I can just barely see Scarlet and Jackson in the backyard. She’s chasing him around with her arms outstretched, dragging one leg as she stumbles through the grass.
I can’t help but smile, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Jackson is currently obsessed with zombies and loves to be chased by them.
“Who are you sexting?” Officer John Wilson asks me as he passes by my desk on the way to his.
Another officer laughs. “The day Dawson sexts is the day we bust an underground crime ring in Eastwood.”
“Fuck you,” I shoot back. The guys never back down from a chance to hassle me about my sex life, or technically lack thereof. “And don’t fucking jinx us.”
“Come on, don’t tell me you don’t wanna bust a crime ring?” Wilson goes on. He’s a good cop, got his degree in law enforcement from a community college, but has never been in combat. Not the way I have.
“It’d give us something to do,” I say with a chuckle. Movement flashes across the screen of my phone again, and I look down just in time to see Scarlet pull her sweatshirt over her head. She has a tank top on underneath, but I still feel like I just witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.
And fuck, I want to see it again.
A minute later, we’re called out to a domestic dispute, which is probably the most excitement we’ll see all day. I shouldn’t complain, though. Eastwood is a safe, small town and I couldn’t think of a better place to raise my son. It’s not to say nothing bad ever happens here. Our biggest problem is drugs, and given the rural setting of many of our residents’ houses, we’ve shut down a surprising number of meth labs over the years.
Last year’s big bust was arresting Marty McMillian, Eastwood’s resident redneck, for threatening and harassing a gay couple. When we got to his house to take him in, hundreds of guns were laid out in his living room. Turns out he’d been stealing them for years and selling them on the black market.
We have a few burglaries and break-ins every year, but in my time on the force, I’ve yet to be called out to a murder. There was a body found two years ago, but it turned out to be a man from Newport who got drunk and stumbled his way into our township before passing out and succumbing to the elements.
It’s obvious what’s going on as soon as we pull up to the farmhouse. It’s the second time we’ve been out here in a month.
“Here we go again,” Wilson huffs and gets out of the squad car.
“Mr. Green,” I start and shut the driver’s side door. “I see you’ve been drinking again.”
“Drinking!” his wife shouts. “He’s been doing more than just drinking! Tell them, Earl, tell them what else you’ve been doing. Or who you been doing!” She’s holding a shotgun and has it pointed in his general direction. And I do mean general. Her hands are too shaky to take a clear shot.
The neighbors across the street are on their porch, and it looks like they’ve got popcorn. This is high-quality entertainment here.
“Put the gun down, Grace,” Wilson says, holding up his hand. “We’ll cart his ass back to the station.”
I really don’t want to put Mr. Green in the back of my car. He always ends up puking. But clearly, he’s going to be spending at least the day sleeping this off.
“You take him, and you keep him!” Grace, Mr. Green’s wife, pumps the shotgun.